Uncomfortably Inconvenienced
by Death'sDarkAngel
Summary: A nearly lethal overdose lands Sherlock in a long-term rehabilitation facility far from home. As part of his treatment, he's required to write apology letters to friends and family that he might have wronged. It sparks a deeper conversation with John than either one could have anticipated…
1. Chapter 1: Unfortunate Circumstances

**Standard disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Trigger warning for drug use.**

 **Author's note: I swear to you that this story is mostly completed, I'm just touching up a few scenes and waiting for my awesome friend to beta further chapters.**

* * *

His mouth set into a hard, firm line as he felt his heart break. "Sherlock, what have you done?" John whispered as his fingers curled around the small cylindrical glass vial.

The man in question wheezed and his head lolled to the side in the direction he heard the voice. "Ne-need help, John…" he mumbled and halfheartedly batted at the hypodermic needle still stuck out of his right arm.

With the stoicism of a man whose seen unspeakable acts of war, the doctor leaned over to gingerly remove the offensive object from his friend's body. No amount of training or previous experience prepared him for this particular moment. John wasn't sure how he could possibly stay kneeling next to the half dead form of his best friend for more than the next few seconds, especially when each one felt like an eternity.

When he could bear it no further, he turned and pulled out his mobile to hastily hit the one number on his speed dial.

"No!" Sherlock whined and attempted to pull John back to him. "D't leave."

With a heavy sigh, the former solider shook his head and explained, "I'm not leaving, I'm calling for help, you idiot."

The genius gave a feeble nod. "Is good. Good. M-crof—he'll know wha-what to…"

In a different part of London, the elder Holmes offered an apologetic smile to his companion and excused himself. "John—this better be important. I'm in a meeting with the PM. What do you need?" He said in a low, smooth tone.

Without preamble, the doctor got straight to the point, just how Mycroft liked it. "Sherlock OD'ed."

The only indication John had that the politician was concerned was the sudden, short inhalation of breath on the other end of the line. "You are with him now?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yes. He's in a bad way—Sherlock needs to get to a hospital as soon as possible."

"I will have private transportation arranged immediately and alert the nearest hospital. What was it?"

"I don't know—I think it's cocaine, but it's cut with something else. It's definitely not good whatever it is."

"Help will be there shortly," Mycroft informed the doctor before he disconnected. At once he began issuing orders to ensure his brother would be taken care of in the best possible way.

"Did I hear something about a hospital?" the other man asked.

With a sign, the politician gave a brief nod and explained, "Yes, my little brother seems to be in a bit of trouble and he requires immediate medical attention. I'm sorry, David, but I must cut our meeting short this evening."

"Of course—family comes first. We'll reschedule when it's a better time," the prime minister assured him. "I do hope Sherlock is alright."

"Thank you," Mycroft said before he grabbed his briefcase and was out the door.

* * *

Sherlock spent the next ten days in intensive care while he detoxed from the lethal combination of drugs that he took. Despite the rather unconventional nature of the situation, John arrived promptly at eight AM every morning and only left at eleven PM when the nighttime nursing staff started giving him evil glares. He kindly ignored them and silently wished them to all go to Hell.

During those days, he would stand outside the small room and look through the glass window as he watched Sherlock writhing in pain on the small bed. The doctor had cringed when they had to resort to thick leather bindings to strap his best friend down. The attending physician was torn about the decision, but finally made the call after the genius had ripped out the IV catheter from his hand for the third time.

The other surgeon later confided to John that he was bloody lucky to have found Sherlock when he did, otherwise the overdose would have killed him—which was nothing the former army captain wasn't already aware of.

The worst of it had been the screaming, the God-awful shrieking that would last for what seemed to be hours on end. It was truly the thing of nightmares, as John continued to hear it well into the early hours of the morning amid their eerily silent flat.

On Day 9, the bindings were finally removed, but not after they had caused considerable damage to the tender skin of the consulting detective's wrists. His blogger had to convince himself that the injuries were significantly better than what could have been the outcome of this horrific situation. Based on the severity of the wounds, he surmised that Sherlock was more than likely going to have scars from the leather straps. Again, it was a small price to pay over the possible loss of his life.

After the eleventh day in the hospital, Sherlock was moved into a private room out of ICU. John sat beside his bed, gently stroked his thumb over the stark white bandages now adorning those delicate wrists.

Sherlock finally lucid, woke to the sensation of his blogger's warm solid presence. He inhaled deeply and let a barely perceivable smile as he opened his eyes and regarded his flat mate. John gave his hand one last gentle squeeze before he sat back in the hard plastic chair he'd been occupying for the last six hours.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked softly.

The genius groaned and answered, "Like I've been hit by a bus."

That earned him a chuckle from his companion. "I'm sure you do." John sobered quickly and said, "You gave us a right good scare there, mate."

The younger man turned his head to stare up at the ceiling to avoid the concerned expression on John's face. He hated that look on his blogger.

"Was I strapped down?" he asked the overhead lights.

"Yeah, you were a bit out of your mind there for a while. Ripped out your IV—they had to restrain you so you didn't do more harm to yourself," John explained. "I imagine you'll probably have a bit of scarring on your hand and wrists as a result."

With a hum of agreeance, the consulting detective gingerly rubbed the bandages on the afore mentioned appendages.

After several moments of strained silence, John attempted to speak, "Sherlock… what happened? I don't understand. Why did you do this?"

The younger man sighed and turned his head on the pillow to look at his flat mate. "John—just leave it, please."

"No, I demand an answer," the doctor mandated, staring him down with every ounce of the army captain he once was. "For Christ's sake—you very nearly _died_ , you berk! Do you have any idea how I would have felt if you had?!"

"I'm begging you to let this go… please…"

John inhaled deeply through his nose as he pinched the bridge, his eyes squeezed shut. Then after another minute, he asked, "Are you sure it's still just a seven percent solution that you take? I think you may have increased the dosage..."

"Does it really matter?"

The retort earned him a sorrowful, mirthless smile. "No, I suppose not."

* * *

The next day, Mycroft had come to see him and, as ever, was the bearer of bad news. The further into the conversation the trio got—because John was never far from his bedside—the more desolate the situation seemed to the genius.

Sherlock gnashed his teeth together in frustration, not trying to hide his utter distain for his brother. He looked imploringly to John, who was leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed, a grim look marring his tanned face. The genius gestured to his blogger in a second attempt at a silent plea for interference.

The former army doctor gave a curt shake of his head, indicating that he would not argue against the elder Holmes. "No, I am in agreement with Mycroft on this one," John stated. "As a doctor I cannot overlook the fact that you've just nearly died because of an overdose."

He somehow managed to keep his tone even, despite the overwhelming urge to scream and shake some sense into his flat mate. "I know it's not something you really want to do, but since this is the what? Third time in your life you've nearly managed your kill yourself using illegal substances, I am putting my foot down. Enough is enough. I refuse to just sit back and watch you self-destruct like this."

The consulting detective looked back at his sibling, expecting to see the fat bastard with a smug expression on his face, but he was surprised to find Mycroft's usually smooth and controlled visage pulled downward in a frown, worried etched into his furrowed brow. Sherlock swiveled his penetrating stare back to his best friend. John swallowed hard, averting his eyes. The genius felt a stab of rage spike through him in light of what the felt was an utter betrayal on his blogger's part.

"John—" the genius tried again.

"Everyone always lets you do whatever you want—that's how you got in this state!" John snapped back at him.

"John, please!"

"I'm not playing this time, Sherlock! Not anymore."

After an eternity ticked by without the others budging on their position of rehab, the consulting detective resigned himself to the dismal fact that he was being sent away to the south of France. While he knew without question that wherever Mycroft sent him would be subpar to none, he felt like a condemned criminal being sentenced to life in prison.

And in this moment, he _hated_ John for agreeing with his insufferable older brother.


	2. Chapter 2: Therapy 101

**I just realized that an entire scene never got copy and pasted over into the actual chapter-it isn't necessary to plot, but I feel better having added it. The first scene here is what's new, it's Sherlock's arrival at the treatment facility.**

* * *

He arrived at his destination about two hours ago, had been given the "grand tour" and now was stuck in a horrendous group session with a rag-tag band of other addicts. A gaggle of therapists were going through introductions and droning on and on and on about the program and what they, as "clients"—not "patients" (because that has a negative connotation to it)—were expected to do in said program.

Sherlock glanced around the room once more. There was at least an interesting group of people here for him to deduce. He smirked to himself for two point six seconds before the grin faded from his face. It would be so much more entertaining to whisper his deductions to his blogger and hear John giggle and half-heartedly admonition him. Despite that, the genius decided to make the most of his situation and picked out the little details he gleaned from the clients and therapists alike.

He discerned that two of the therapists were married yet sleeping together—and they were both males. _Wait until their wives discover the truth on that one!_ he thought was small sliver of amusement.

The chubby balding fellow client across the room was too twitchy and if he wasn't careful, the staff would eventually discover that he somehow managed to smuggle in his drug of choice—bath salts—into the facility, Sherlock was able to infer. Another client was here ultimately to escape her husband and children, the youngest patron among them—a mere twenty-two—was in the midst of a sexual identity crisis, which is what had led to her drug use.

And then there was the curvy short-haired American therapist. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and took a longer look at her. He had the disturbing sensation of deja-vu, only instead of sitting on a hard plastic chair staring at a therapist, he had been on a sofa gazing at a naked woman, The Woman… He couldn't deduce anything about her and it was incredibly frustrating. The consulting detective gritted his teeth and attempted to refocus on the boring litany of endless speeches from the facility staff. It made him miss John all the more and he had a sharp, sudden craving for his seven percent solution.

"As part of our program, we ask that all our participants write letters to friends and family, business partners, anyone to whom you feel reparations need to be made for your actions regarding your substance use," the American therapist stated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest defensively. This was dull, a complete waste of his time. He was already plotting his revenge against Mycroft for sending him here.

"Besides group therapy, each of you will be assigned an individual counselor whom you will have daily sessions with," she continued to explain. "Your assignments will be given to you momentarily and know that thought and care has gone into each selection to ensure the maximum potential for a therapeutic relationship to ensue. Rest assured that while we do try our best, we know that not every therapist works well with each client. We'll assess each match at the end of the week to verify placement is working."

She stopped talking, _finally!_ thought Sherlock, but his pleasure at that was short-lived as the petite little American woman stopped before him. He glanced up to meet a pair of intense green eyes.

"Welcome, Mr. Holmes," she greeted with an enigmatic smile. "You will be working with me."

* * *

"Do you want to talk about the scars on your wrists?" the psychologist asked casually—as casually as such a question could be asked.

Sherlock shrugged in response and answered, "I honestly can't tell you much about it except for what I've been told. I was informed that they had to restrain me while I was detoxing."

She gave a noncommittal hum. "What are your thoughts on that?"

"I was obviously out of my mind, so I don't have any thoughts on the matter."

"Really? None whatsoever?"

"No. If it were done, it was done out of necessity. I trust John with my life and if he made the call, I assure you that it was done so justly."

"Ahh, yes... John..." Emily stated vaguely, gazing intently at him. "So, John saved your life. Tell me about him; he is your roommate—pardon—flatmate, is he not?"

The consulting detective gave a snort. "John is not simply my 'flat mate'; he's my best friend and partner."

She had a surprised look on her face as she said, "Oh, my apologies, I hadn't realized that you two were romantically involved."

"What?! No! Not partners in that sense!" Sherlock cried defensively with a hint of panic in his voice. "I mean that he is my colleague—he assists me in my work as a consulting detective and he writes up our cases for his blog."

"I'm aware of your work, Sherlock," she stated calmly. "I've read Dr. Watson's blog."

"Perhaps, but you've only done so recently—mainly because you discovered that I was to be one of your patients," he declared, staring back at her daring her to admit he was right.

The genius had to be satisfied with his disappointment, as there was no response given to his statement and no visual indication whether what he said was factual.

"Tell me how John saved your life," she redirected his focus back to the conversation.

"Well, this last time, he was the one who found me and called for help," Sherlock explained. "While I was in the hospital, he sat with me every day until I was brought here."

"And you think that's a typical response from a best friend? To spend so much time tending to you?"

"Social conventions perplex me, Doctor, so if you're asking me to discern whether such actions are atypical, I cannot answer your question."

"Alright then, let me ask you this," she replied, changing the trajectory of her inquiries. "What were your thoughts about him being there?"

"He's always there for me," Sherlock supplied without hesitation.

The therapist leaned back in her seat and carefully decided her next words. "You say he's always there for you... has there ever been a time in your friendship that you feel that wasn't the case?"

The consulting detective opened his mouth for a snapping retort but closed his mouth just as quickly. Despite his effort to hide his reaction, it was not missed by the psychologist. She gave him the time and space to work out his thoughts without pressing him further.

Sherlock again opened his mouth but then closed it. He refused to look at her and shook his head.

Emily waited another minute, there was clearly something there, but he was unwilling to discuss it just yet. That was fine, she knew he'd come to her about it eventually. She asked a gentler question, "When was a time that he disappointed you?"

Realizing that the matter wouldn't be dropped entirely, Sherlock heaved a great sigh and decided to give her an honest response, "While he isn't as quick-witted as I would like at times, there are few occurrences where John disappoints me. Seeing as how you are not willing to let this conversation alone, I will say that the exception to this is his innate desire for female companionship. He is a singular character and his own brilliance could be so much brighter if he would simply stop with this horrific farce he insists on perpetuating."

"And what farse would that be?"

"Oh, for God's sake! Really?!" The genius huffed in annoyance and crossed his arms over his chest. "Pretending that he's happy with any of those—those... slags!"

His comment was received with raised eyebrows.

"That's an interesting choice in words," the therapist commented.

"Does that term offend you, Doctor?" he sneered. "Would you like it if I were to call them 'mingers' instead?"

"I don't care what you call them so long as that's how you feel you need to describe them," was the infuriating level-headed response. "If you're trying to offend me, Sherlock, I can assure you that it won't work. I've heard far worst from a lot meaner and tougher than you. And you're deflecting. So, John wastes his time on women not suited for him is what I hear you saying. Tell me: what would be a better use of his efforts?"

"Spending his time with me, of course," the consulting detective answered. "I think better with him around and I've quite gotten used to him puttering about the flat. It disturbs me when he's not there for long periods of time."

"What is disturbing about his absence?" Emily pressed. Her question raised a pinkish blush on Sherlock's cheeks and he shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny. It was another sore subject she mentally catalogued to circle back to at a later date.

Even though she had only been working with the genius for the past week, she already knew that the heart of the matter laid with John—he was Sherlock's linchpin. The young man was in no way ready to face his true feelings head on, though the psychologist had already hazarded a guess as to what the root of the problem was. She needed to get the consulting detective into a better place before she pushed him too far in this area.

"I can tell that this is something that you're uncomfortable discussing at the moment, so I'm not going to push you further today—but don't think that we're finished with this subject," she warned.

Sherlock gave a brief nod to acknowledge her statement, but now that she asked such a high-charged question, he couldn't _stop_ thinking about it and the potential implications. Emily's next query brought him out of his reverie.

"Do you remember us mentioning the letters?"

"Yes, to 'make reparations', I believe you had said."

"Oh good! I'm glad you remembered! Well, I'm not asking you to start them just yet, but I do want you to think of a couple of people whom you might owe an apology to," his therapist said. "I just want you to keep this in the back of your mind—there is no use in writing an apology if you don't truly mean it or understand what you've done that could have caused the other party pain."

Again, he nodded, his eyes fixed on the intricate pattern of the oriental rug beneath them.

"Is there anyone at this point you think you might owe an apology to?" she asked softly.

Sherlock finally tore his gaze away from the floor to meet her eyes for the first time in over ten minutes. "I do believe I owe John an apology. I know that I have behaved badly recently, and he has born the brunt of my foul moods since our partnership began. He honestly deserves a nomination for sainthood."

"What would you say to him, given the chance?"

The consulting detective took a deep breath and began to list off things he might need to express remorse for to his blogger. Once he started, the words kept flowing and he found that he couldn't stop himself. The worst part was, he didn't understand why he felt comfortable enough with this person to divulge the worst parts of his character and how he treated the person he called his best friend.

* * *

 **My thanks to _reality is lame_ for being my beta! She's not on FanFiction, but I still wanted to give her some love for agreeing to read boy love for me 3**


	3. Chapter 3: Dear John

Sherlock growled in frustration as he dropped his pen onto the desk. He then raked his fingers through his unruly curls, squeezing his eyes shut.

How hard could this possibly be?! Very, apparently, his brain supplied unhelpfully. The genius was on the fourth draft of his letter to his blogger; he knew what he wanted to say, but it didn't seem to be translating well from his thoughts to paper.

Emotions weren't his thing on the best of days, let alone expressing them to another human being. And this wasn't for just anyone, this letter for was John, his John...

After all, Sherlock was here because of his inability to express himself in healthier ways other than drowning out his emotional pain through the stinging pinch of a needle. He took a deep, shaky breath and tried to push past his aching need for a seven percent solution.

But no, he couldn't do that—mustn't do that for John; the good doctor was a forgiving man but there was only so much one person could take. Sherlock asked a lot of his flatmate and had put him through hell, he knew that. His debacle with Moriarty a couple years back was the most notable of any incident, playing dead to keep his friends safe. Even though he had faked his own death, ultimately to save John's life, his blogger went through hell. It really wasn't fair, doing what he'd done to a soldier with PTSD, what he continued to do...

Alone, in his private room in this very expensive rehabilitation facility, Sherlock let his feelings crash over him and accepted responsibility for the pain he caused his best friend.

When the tears finally stopped streaming down his face, he took a slow deep breath before reaching for another sheet of paper.

* * *

 _Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _26 March, 201-_

 _Dear John,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. I hardly know where to start. It seems that I am to make reparations to those I have wronged through my drug use. I have had a counselor forced on me and she is checking to ensure that I follow through with the directive. While I intensely dislike the idea of being forced to apologize—this isn't like when you make me do it—I wanted to at least write you to offer you my sincerest apology for my actions. While I refuse to give Mycroft the satisfaction of such words, I have concluded that perhaps you are, in fact, owed them._

 _I know my actions in the last several weeks were less than desirable. Despite that, you have remained my only steadfast friend, to which I must say I am wholly grateful. It has also come to my realization that you, John Watson, have saved my life—not only in this particular instance, but on numerous occasions. For that I thank you. I know that I am not the easiest of all companions to live with, but I am glad that you possess the tenacity and fortitude of a bulldog, my brave, stout army doctor._

 _I just might climb the walls here—sitting around all day, talking about my_ feelings _. Ugh, the abject horror of it and an incredible waste of time! My mind rebels against stagnation—give me problems, give me work! The sooner the better! And don't touch my papers, they are in their proper place, as per usual._

 _While it is not required that you respond, I hope that you will find the time. It would help to elevate my boredom in the slightest way and I would be appreciative._

 _Sincerely yours,_

 _Sherlock H._

{o0o}

221b Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

UK

3 April, 201-

Dear Sherlock,

I'm glad to hear from you! I hope that this is stay in rehab will do you some good. You're my best friend and I care very deeply for you—I surely hope you know that. I simply can't understand, Sherlock. You're so bloody brilliant, but you keep turning to these self-destructive patterns… I know you had said before that the first time this happened to you, you genuinely thought you needed the stimulation it provided to function at your fullest capacity. Though that's not the case this time? Tell me why then, help me to understand.

Just know that you have people in your life that truly care for your well-being and we want nothing but the best for you, and that includes your brother. So you know, Mycroft chose that facility particularly because it is the best; it wasn't in punishment. To do his job, your brother needs to know that you are healthy and getting the help you need. I have no doubt that he would start a war for you. Keep that in mind the next time you talk to him please. He does it out of love, not for spite.

Mrs. Hudson sends her love.

Life is rather boring at the moment. Greg is working through a difficult slew of home burglary-homicides that seem to be linked, but so far he hasn't any leads and I'm of little help, as I'm sure you've already guessed. He misses you too, though he hasn't said it in so many words.

There was an unexpected cold front that came through; London is drizzly and positively dreadful. Looks like you escaped just in time to avoid this nasty weather, you lucky duck.

I'm not sure if you're allowed to continue correspondence via post, I know rehab facilities usually don't allow phone calls and such, but sometimes are okay with letters. If you can, write back. Baker Street just isn't the same without you. The other night I woke up from another nightmare, haven't had them since you came back from your… absence. Had to keep reminding myself that you were just in France and would be back soon. I'm such a sap. And that's enough embarrassment for me for one night!

Take care of yourself,

John


	4. Chapter 4: Lucky Ducks

_Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _11 April, 201-_

 _Dear John,_

 _While you know I've never been one to give into sentiment, I do appreciate your expression of it. Let me first address the last part of your letter: I am truly sorry for being the source of your nightmares, yet again. It was not my intention. I know how much my actions in the past, no matter how pure my intent, have hurt you. My therapist has pointed out that I have not considered you in most of my decisions and this selfishness has led to some unfortunate misunderstandings._

 _We can indeed continue our correspondence, in fact, my therapist is nearly insisting upon it. It seems easier to discuss certain subjects this way, especially those of a difficult nature for me such as feelings._

 _I do not wish to discuss my brother with you. He has no place in our personal letters, this is a space for just you and me._

 _Things aren't any more exciting here, either. I quite enjoyed the last time I was in the French Riviera—though that was for holiday and this is obviously not. The Zen spa "music" they insist on blasting through the facility common rooms is getting on my nerves. Wish I had my violin, if nothing else I'd like to compose. I've been inspired as of late, but I need to play in order to work out the music._

 _Send me the details and I will solve Lestrade's case for him. It's good to know that he can't seem to function without me. Contemplating his puzzle will be much more entertaining than continually reflecting on my feelings._

 _I don't understand—how is it that a duck, of all things, is considered lucky?_

 _You'll appreciate this; one of the other patients was foolish enough to engage us in a game of Cluedo, you can image how well that turned out. These people think I'm a show pony, here to perform some bloody tricks for them at the drop of a hat. Though there are times I find myself turning to share a deduction I know will make you laugh and it's… disappointing… that you're not there. You're more entertaining than this sorry lot here. Save me from my boredom—you know that bad things happen when I'm bored._

 _Sincerely yours,_

 _Sherlock_

{o0o}

221b Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

16 April, 201-

Dear Sherlock,

Thanks, that's… good—that's very good. I've some to accept the fact, yes, you're a selfish git, but nevertheless I wouldn't have you any other way. Your acknowledgment of these things does go a long way in tamping down my anger towards you and certain situations. Seems your therapist is good for you.

You scared the hell of out me, Sherlock. I can't tell you what I was feeling when I walked into the drug house and saw you there, needle in your arm... I've been to war, I was shot for God's sake, and I was never as terrified as when I found you... even thinking about it now makes me want to get sick.

Oh—how are your wrists, by the way? I didn't think, I have some great salve that could have helped reduce the scarring, but at this point it wouldn't do you any good. I should have sent it with you when you left, but I wasn't thinking at the time.

I've never been to the French Rivera, but I would love to go some day. Perhaps we should take a holiday soon—I'd love to lounge on a beach for a week. I will see if Mycroft can talk to the facility about getting your violin to you, I know how therapeutic it is for you to play and compose. In the meantime, just try and tune out the music or avoid those spaces as much as you can if it bothers you that much.

Now you know that I can't send you cases, Sherlock. And I would like to point out that "Scotland Yard and Gregory Lestrade's career functioned perfectly fine before you came along. Though your contributions are highly appreciated, you git"—direct quote from Greg. He finally had a break in the case—turns out that it was an elaborate heist scheme based out of an art gallery.

While I have you as a captive audience, what is your favorite color? Your favorite book? I know you're fond of classical music and that Wagner is your favorite, but is there another type of music you like: rock, pop, jazz? I feel like I know so much about you but so little at the same time.

A duck is lucky because it flies south for the winter? To better climates?

When I read that line about you reflecting on your feelings, I could mentally hear the disdain in your voice :) I know that it's something you try to avoid, but it will be worth it in the end. Dealing with your emotions will ultimately get at the heart of the problem and it will help you finally overcome your addiction.

Oh that poor sod… he had no idea what he was getting into with that damned game, did he? I almost feel sorry for him! I've gotten rid of our copy, by the way. You weren't here to stop me; I have no regrets. And since when do you not what to show off? Sherlock, that's what you _do_. You enjoy being in the spotlight.

I think we both miss each other, we work together and live together—you're my best mate after all. I do appreciate your acknowledgment though. I can't believe I'm writing this and I will never admit this out loud, but I miss the sound of your voice. You do know that I enjoy hearing your deductions when we're out, it helps to pass the time. And I've managed to further embarrass myself, perhaps this letter business isn't the best idea as I can't seem not to make a fool of myself.

I look forward to your next letter.

Best,

John

{o0o}

 _Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _22 April, 201-_

 _Dear John,_

 _You know that I have never been good at dealing with my emotions. I am starting to work through them, though. And despite my earlier misgivings about counseling, I am finding it helpful to process my thoughts and feelings with my psychologist (who reminds me a lot of Mrs. Hudson—I don't know what it is, I sit down and before I can stop myself I have divulged my innermost thoughts to her. It's puzzling)._

 _As to "getting to the heart of the problem", I came across this quote while reading and thought it very poignant: "If you want to know where you heart is, look to where your mind goes when it wanders". I have spent a significant amount of time here contemplating this very thing._

 _My wrists have healed completely, but there has been some scarring, as you had predicted. It's sort of mottled and splotchy, but not too bad. My shirt cuffs cover it up and nobody's the wiser._

 _I appreciate the thought nonetheless regarding the salve. Always looking after me, John—even from afar… you really do deserve sainthood. "John Watson, The Patron Saint of Difficult Flatmates"._

 _You know everything of importance, John. Things like my favorite color and food are trivial in the grand scheme of things, but since I have nothing better to do, I shall indulge you and answer your queries. Purple is the color I like best. My favorite book is_ Treasure Island _. You already know that my favorite movie is_ Pirates of the Caribbean _, despite its glaring inaccuracies. Ahh—you were paying attention! You are quite correct, I do enjoy Wagner the best. As for other forms of music, I do enjoy jazz, but more what's considered "Old School Jazz", like Louis Armstrong and Miles Davis. I like its complexity. I am also a fan of rock. If we are to exchange personal trivia, I pose the same questions to you then._

 _Are you asking or telling me? That still does not explain how ducks are any more fortunate than the next waterfowl. Insinuating such leaves a whole host of other creatures "unlucky", and frankly I don't see what geese did to warrant being excluded from favorable circumstances…_

 _While I do enjoy proving my unique genius to the general masses, it is starting to become tedious. One fellow addict keeps badgering me every time I see him, I've resorted to checking around corners and escaping group therapy as quickly as possible to avoid him. I feel as if I'm in one of your horrendous spy movies. It's like I'm stuck in a never-ending scene from_ Mission Impossible _! I don't know how long I'm going to be able to dodge him… perhaps he'll relapse and they'll be forced to send him away… maybe I shall clue him into who here has his drug of choice… this idea warrants further contemplation._

 _What do you mean you got rid of Cluedo?! No matter, I will buy another copy of the game upon my return and we shall engage in a battle of deductions. You will most assuredly lose. Prepare yourself._

 _You like the sound of my voice? Thank you, John. I didn't expect that. I admit that I miss talking to you as well. It's strange how one simply gets used to things, I never thought I would ever be considered someone's best friend, let alone take that person's presence in my life for granted. Don't feel embarrassed._

 _It is imperative that we keep up our correspondence—I may simply_ die _of boredom here otherwise._

 _I look forward to hearing from you soon._

 _Sincerely yours,_

 _Sherlock_

{o0o}

221b Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

28 April, 201-

Dear Sherlock,

That's great—it means that it's working. I hope you're finding it cathartic.

Yes—by Imam Ali. I've always thought that it's a beautifully expressed sentiment. I've always thought that it has proven to show me what the most important thing in my life is. What has your revelation on the subject yielded?

LOL! Thanks, but I don't know if I quite qualify for sainthood. Besides, I hear that's a lengthy process and I'm almost positive that you need to be dead first. Though you could petition your brother on my behalf for knighthood. I think "Sir John" has a nice ring to it.

Really? Purple? Somehow, I find that surprising-though your 'purple shirt of sex' should have given me a clue. And why _Treasure Island_? What it is about that story in particular that makes it your favorite? As for myself, I am rather fond of green. My favorite book is the _Hitchhiker's Guide to the_ _Galaxy_. Yes, you're right—I did know that was your favorite movie; it's because of the pirates, isn't it? And that probably explains the book, too. I'd have to say that _Skyfall_ is my favorite movie, though it's a close call between it and _The Godfather_. I like jazz—in fact, _Dippermouth Blues_ by Louis Armstrong is one of my favorite songs. I listen to rock mostly—love The Beatles but I'm a huge fan of Def Leppard.

It's just an expression, Sherlock! I didn't make it up! You know what—never mind. Not important. Just forget about the duck.

The thought of you scurrying around like Tom Cruise in _Mission Impossible_ is hysterical and completely plausible since I've already seen you do it. No one as bloody tall as you deserves to look that graceful darting about like a ninja. And might I remind you that while you complain about having to resort to subterfuge, you love it. Don't pretend otherwise, we both know the truth.

Are you serious?! Sherlock—you can't go and have that man relapse simply because he's taking the piss out on you! A bit not good. Christ… how did you ever survive social encounters before I came along? Based on that comment alone, I'd agree with your self-diagnosis of a sociopath if I didn't know you better than that.

No Cluedo—period, end of sentence. I'm never playing that with you again. I was serious and nothing you can say or do will change my mind.

You know that it's not physically possible for anyone to actually die of boredom, yes? Though knowing you, you'd get into something that would bring about your untimely demise… best not chance in, shall we? As long as you keep writing, I will respond. I've got an early shift at the surgery tomorrow so I best sign off now.

The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

John

* * *

 **I was hoping to give you guys more, but I am currently waiting on my beta to edit the next few chapters. As soon as she looks at them, you'll have them! Unless someone out there in cyberspace is grammar nazi and has some free time... Either way-hope you enjoy the story so far. Happy Friday!**


	5. Chapter 5: Once More Unto the Breach!

_Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _5 May, 201-_

 _Dear John,_

 _I am finding that writing letters to you is somewhat cathartic. It is an unexpected realization that I've recently come to. While I don't have you here physically to listen to my stream of consciousness, this is a decent substitute—though it is highly less satisfying. It's a much lengthier prospect given that I cannot write as fast as my thoughts come._

 _As I have just started coming to terms with it myself, I am still not comfortable expressing it to others—even you, my dearest John. But know that I will someday—soon—I shall share it with you, just not at this moment. Though every day is one step closer to me being able to express that thought. I hope you know that I do count you as one of the most important things in my life. I have never had a friend before, and certainly no one as steadfast and committed as you. I count myself extremely lucky that you are able to withstand the more eccentric parts of my personality._

 _Hmm, yes—Sir John does sound kind of… sexy. For some reason, when I read your request for knighthood, I envisioned you dressed up like a medieval knight, suit of armor and all. You were a stunning visage. Perhaps we should visit one of those Renaissance fairs… while horribly inaccurate, it would be entertaining to see you dressed up. Imagine the feminine attention you'd receive! It could be a social experiment—I'm sure that the information I would gather could be useful in understanding how the female brain reacts to men in fancy dress._

 _My 'purple shirt of sex'? Seriously? I know it seems silly for a grown adult to enjoy such a book, but as you already know, I was rather fond of pirates as a child. That book is a holdover from my childhood. It was the story I went to when I felt sad or lonely. What is it about_ Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy _that you enjoy so much?_ _Yes, I'm aware of your fondness for James Bond; the movie marathon you made me sit through during that last snowstorm this winter was a giveaway. That and the fact that you kept reiterating it throughout the films—while quite inebriated, might I add. I haven't seen_ The Godfather _, but isn't it a trilogy? Are you fond of one movie or just the series as a whole? I'm rather fond of jazz myself. Louis Armstrong was indeed a talented musician; I would have loved to see him perform in person. Def Leppard—really? How did I not know that?! What's your favorite song?_

 _I'd expect nothing less than for you to love The Beatles, being the red-blooded Englishman that you are. I met Paul McCartney once at a party. It was an interesting encounter._

 _I will drop my issue about the duck… for now…_

 _You're right, I do so love subterfuge! I'm giggling at the idea of being a ninja, thank you. I needed a good laugh today. But to be fair, I am hardly Tom Cruise. I'm more like Pierce Brosnan in_ The World is Not Enough _._

 _John—I would not endanger the man's sobriety. It hurts me that you would think I was serious. Alas, this is the problem with no facial expression context; one cannot observe when a joke is being made. Please believe me when I say that I, more so than most, understand the importance of overcoming an addiction. I will not be the cause of another man's failure._

 _Just because there aren't any documented cases of people dying of boredom doesn't mean it hasn't happened. My mind is simply too brilliant to waste away in the confines of this brother-imposed prison. Oh! Along that line, there is a music therapy group that is offered to long-term "clients". Would you be so kind as to ready my violin? It will help keep me from getting too bored. My therapist has approved it and has faxed over a letter of consent to Mycroft's office. I'm sure his assistant will be around Baker Street to collect it shortly._

 _Once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more;_

 _Sherlock_

{o0o}

221b Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

14 May, 201-

Dear Sherlock,

I've always enjoyed writing to some degree, I admit. Have you ever tried journaling? I know you scribble notes about important things, but in this situation, you might find it helpful.

I laughed aloud at you imagining me in a suit of armor! As for going to a fair, only if you drag me kicking and screaming—I had an ex-girlfriend who was into all that, made me squeeze into tights and a puffy shirt. No thank you, I will pass. If you really want to do a social experiment on ladies' reaction to fancy dress, I will simply wear my Dress Blues to the next formal party we attend. Nothing gets the girls like a man in uniform ;) How do you think I was able to pull so many?

You really are that clueless, aren't you? Do you have any idea how much attention you get whenever you wear that bloody purple shirt? You could get laid by three-quarters of the city if you wanted to. Wow... I didn't expect such an honest answer to your fondness for the book. And what about now? Are you either of those things, sad and/or lonely?

There's just something about _Hitchhiker's Guide_ that I enjoy; I guess I like the adventure-you have this rag-tag group of unlikely companions traveling around space together. I don't know, it's entertaining I suppose. In a weird sort of way, it now reminds me of us and our adventures…

 _The Godfather_ is a trilogy; it's about an Italian mob family in New York. The first movie is excellent, but second one is pure genius—I think you'd appreciate it. We'll watch it when you get home. I was in New Orleans once around Mardi Gras; there were brass bands on practically every corner in the French Quarter. It was such an amazing experience! I think you would enjoy it. Are you, Sherlock Holmes, telling me that you're a Def Leppard fan? Please dear God say yes! I love going to see them in concert, but I hate going by myself. To answer your question, _Animal_ is my favorite song. Is there one you like best?

Of course—who doesn't love The Beatles? Can you believe their music is still relevant today? They really were on the cutting edge of so many things. You Met Sir Paul at a party?! When and where? I'm so jealous! What's he like?

Oh my… _two_ James Bond references in the _same_ letter? Is that your way of telling me you're secretly a fan? Have I finally convinced you of his magnificence? And you'd make a dashing 007, Sherlock. Perhaps we should call Hollywood before they start casting for their next Bond.

My apologies, I know that you would never purposely be the cause of someone else's relapse. It was cruel of me to even suggest that might be the case. Please forgive me. As you've said, it's difficult to figure out the intent behind certain things without facial expressions or vocal tone to go on.

Anthea came to collect your violin just minutes after I read your last letter—are you certain that we found all of Mycroft's bugs? I'm not convinced, the timing of her arrival was just too eerily. You'll have to let me know how that new piece goes once you are able to work it out. I look forward to hearing it. I highly enjoy watching and listening to you play—you're quite the talented musician, but you know that already, don't you?

I'm impressed you recognized my Shakespearean quote at the end of my last letter! Never pegged you as a classics fan.

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

John


	6. Chapter 6: Dress Blues

_Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _23 May, 201-_

 _Dear John,_

 _You say you enjoy writing, yet your blog before meeting my acquaintance was hardly a testimony to that statement._

 _Your Dress Blues? Hmm, that would be an interesting experiment. I do have to agree with that sentiment; there is something about a man in uniform… I don't think the greater London area can handle you in such attire. Come to think about it, I don't ever recall seeing you in your uniform—besides a photograph, of course._

 _I have been told on several occasions that I am pleasing to the eye, but_ _I'm not interested in 'getting laid' by the entirety of London. If I were to engage in sexual intercourse, it would be with a very selective partner. Yes, there are times when I still have feelings of sadness and loneliness… but they haven't been as frequent in the last several years as they have been in the past._

 _The premise of_ The Godfather _movies does sound intriguing and I am willing to watch it with you upon my return. Whether or not it is truly a work of 'genius' as you say will remain undetermined until I have been able to see it for myself._

Animal _? Oh John, isn't that quite naughty—even for you? As for myself,_ Love Bites _would probably be it. So yes, I am a fan as well. Mycroft took me to a concert in the early 90's (can you believe that?). We most certainly should go see them; that's not something we have ever done together, and I am most in favor of the idea. Next summer when they tour again we shall go._

 _I do enjoy how The Beatles music evolved over time—quite inspiring really. Yes, I met McCartney—Mummy used to throw these grand parties; everyone who was anyone would be there. Usually he was out touring during the annual event, but he happened to be in town once. He's funny—Paul has a good sense of humor. You'd get on well with him I should think. What is your favorite Beatles song?_

 _I have no further comments on James Bond, other than I find Daniel Craig to be quiet fit (and fitting) for the role as 007. My violin arrived yesterday and the piece of music I have been mentally working on sounds even better than I had anticipated. I will most definitely play it for you when I am home again. I am quite pleased to hear that you enjoy my playing._

 _I realize that I have not asked after Mary—please forgive my oversight. I know you had bought that diamond ring for her, have you proposed?_

 _John please—every blue-blooded Englishman knows Shakespeare!_

 _Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow._

 _Sherlock_

{o0o}

221b Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

26 May, 201-

Dear Sherlock,

Touché. You're right as usual, my blog was painfully boring to the point I found it difficult to keep up the facade, even at my therapist's insistence. In university I kept a journal and noted interesting things I wished to remember later. I find it highly amusing to go back and reread them on occasion—if you ever want a good laugh some time, remind me and I'll pull them out.

I look quite good in my uniform if I do say so myself ;) I really wonder what it is that draws women to it. And… the greater London area can't handle it or… _you_ can't handle it? You're right, I haven't really had an occasion to wear it recently. If you really want to see it, I'll pull it out of the closet and model for you.

So, who would make the cut to be your very selective sexual partner? Just out of curiosity. I am glad to hear that you're not as lonely as you once were, but it still upsets me that you have those feelings. I hope that I have been able to alleviate some of that for you. I can say that before I met you, I was so alone and I owe you so much.

No one ever said that I wasn't a bad boy at heart ;) I especially like the lyrics at the end of the song:

Tame me, tie me

Make me your animal

Show me, stroke me

Let me be your animal

Concert—yes! I want to see you loosen up a bit. I love it when you get into your music; I can only imagine what it would be like to watch you rock out to Def Leppard. I'm buying tickets as soon as they go on sale for their next tour. I don't care if you have a case, I will drag you there. _Love Bites_ is another great song, I concur. Try as I might, I just cannot picture Mycroft at a concert! Please tell me there are pictures? Did he wear a suit, or does he own something that costs less than half a fortune? If he's in a tee-shirt, I need to see proof!

I'm still blown away that you met Paul McCartney—at your mother's party nonetheless! My favorite Beatles song is actually one of his: _Let it Be_. I know he's not referencing Mother Mary in the religious sense, but that's how I took it. Growing up Catholic, I always envisioned the Virgin Mother coming to sit at the bedside… you see horrible things in war, especially as a doctor, and this song helped me through some of the darkest days. It deeply moves me whenever I hear it. I admit that occasionally I become emotional so I am not likely to listen to it when in the presence of someone else.

Oh—so you like Daniel Craig, do you? Well then… is he your type?

I appreciate you asking after Mary, but no. In the light of recent events I decided that it wasn't the right time. We broke up. No need to gloat—I know you had been hoping that all along, as you do with all my relationships.

We know what we are, but know not what we may be…

John


	7. Chapter 7: Revelations

Emily smiled warmly at Sherlock as he finished regaling the tale of how his blogger had fallen into the Thames after he freaked out about a seagull dive-bombing him while they were trying to wrap up a smuggling ring case.

"Speaking of John," she began, "how has your correspondence been going with him? I assume you're still writing him?"

"Good… It's good," he answered honestly. Sherlock thought about it a little more with a slight frown on his face as he reflected on their letters. "John is my best friend and the person who knows me the most... he asked me trivial—what I thought was trivial—questions about my favorite color, music, book… while the answers don't matter, it sparked a deeper conversation that I hadn't fully expected."

His therapist sat there patiently and waited for him to continue as he seemed to be on the precipice of a revelation, one that she knew he needed to make if he was to move beyond this emotional plateau where he was stuck.

"Sometimes I have these... I don't know… thoughts about him. I just feel waves of fondness for John," the genius murmured, more to himself than his therapist.

"What does that mean to you exactly?" she asked quietly as not to break him out of the spell he had woven around himself.

Sherlock took a deep breath and answered, "That there are times I think about him to the point of distraction and there isn't anything I wouldn't do for him… I get this sensation…" he gestured to his sternum.

"Describe the feeling for me," the psychologist prompted.

"Like a fluttering sensation, sometimes in my stomach."

"I know we talked before about you feeling that John wastes his time with his girlfriend," she reminded him. "Do you ever feel… jealous… that he gives them his time instead of you?"

The consulting detective blinked at her with a startled expression on his face, like the thought had just occurred to him. "Yes—I suppose that's how I've felt. I've certainly wanted him to be with me instead."

He became quiet, lost in his thoughts for a few moments before he told her, "I don't know how far back you read his blog, but… we had a run in with a criminal mastermind—Moriarty—a few years ago, and he threatened to bring me down. He nearly succeeded, too. Moriarty told me that if I didn't kill myself, he would in turn murder my closest friends. While I was concerned about Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade… the thought that John could have been hurt because of me… I panicked, the thought of the world being deprived of Doctor John Watson—I couldn't live with myself if something were to happen to him because of me."

"Sherlock," Emily started kindly, "You do realize that it's not a typical response for a flatmate to be jealous of their friend's significant others, or for you to have such a visceral reaction to Moriatry's threat—specifically for John… right?"

"I… suppose…"

"What do you think that means?"

She watched as realization finally dawned in his eyes, followed by a sharp inhalation of breath and a look of utter panic.

* * *

 _Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _4 June, 201-_

 _Dear John,_

 _I should very much like to read your journals from university. Thanks to our friendship, your blog has much improved, though your outlandish tales of our escapades are more fantasy than a factual account of our cases. I admit it's good for entertainment value, but I do fear that you're giving the public an unrealistic expectation of our services. I'm neither a magician nor a miracle worker_ _._ _It helps me see myself through your eyes, I'm so much cleverer._

 _John Watson—what are you suggesting? I'm not going to divulge my thoughts on you in your Dress Blues. And that is all I have to say on the matter._

 _You want to know who would make the cut to be my lover? That's a dangerous road to go down, John. Are you sure you want to? Oh, by the way—I want you to know that I received that copy of_ Treasure Island _you sent. Thank you-that was very thoughtful and touching. There is no need to be disturbed by my feelings of loneliness; much of it is of my own making. Though I have discovered that this is what friends do, they are concerned about the well-being and happiness of their mates? Your steadfast companionship has gone a long way to improve my disposition. My mother has commented on it several times. It is I who owe you._

 _Well, your army moniker Three Continents Watson suddenly makes a lot of sense in lieu of this knowledge of your favorite Def Leppard song. Tell me, do you enjoy being tied and tamed? If you claim to be 'a bad boy at heart', that would suggest that you potentially prefer to be the one doing the tying. I assure you that I am quite capable of loosening up under the right circumstances. And yes, Mycroft wore a tee-shirt to the concert, but sadly there is no evidence._

 _While I did not have such a religious upbringing, it is understandable how_ Let it Be _would evoke such feelings. I didn't know you were raised Catholic. I can only imagine the things that you have seen at war—as a doctor you would see the most horrid of things. Though, I do think that part of you needs the adrenaline rush; you are terrified of a life without the thrill of the macabre. But you are surely allowed moments of weakness, especially in light of all you have experienced._

 _John, do you really think so little of me? While I acknowledge that I have not been supportive of your romantic endeavors in the past, I do genuinely want you to be happy. I give you my word that I will try harder in the future to not interfere as much as I have. Perhaps I have not been the best at expressing it, but I truly was trying to save you from a much more painful break-up further down the road. I thought of it as just pulling off a plaster to be done with it, though I never gave much thought to how you might have felt in that/those moment(s). I offer you my sincerest apology._

 _There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so._

 _Sherlock_


	8. Chapter 8: Replay

**Sorry for the delay in getting these few chapters to you-my beta has been very busy. I hope this helps to make it up to you :***

* * *

It had been four days since Sherlock had made the revelation about the true nature of his feelings towards his flat mate and it had taken her the last three to get him to not panic at the mere mention of John's name. Yesterday had finally been constructive and he was able to accept his thoughts and emotions towards his blogger, which was why she was concerned about his behavior today. Emily sat quietly watching her client as he continued to ceaselessly fidget in his chair before her.

"You're extremely agitated," she finally observed aloud. "I'm here to listen whenever you're ready to talk."

Sherlock's glance darted to her briefly before he averted his gaze elsewhere. He took a trembling breath and declared in a rush, "IhadasexdreamaboutJohnlastnight."

The therapist blinked in confusion momentarily before his words finally made sense. "Ahh..." was all she said and leaned back in her seat, giving him the illusion of a little more space.

When it appeared that she was not going to receive anything beyond that, Emily stated very quietly, "You know, it's not all that uncommon for people to have intimate dreams about those they are close to. John is your best friend, it's perfectly natural that this happened."

He shook his head vehemently. "No! Not to me! It's all just transport! I don't have—urges, animalistic cravings like the rest of depraved society—it's not who I am!"

"Is this the first time you've had a dream like this?"

Lurching forward in his chair, Sherlock dropped his head into hands, his elbow resting on his knees. He forced himself to take a few calming breaths like the therapist had taught him.

"Yes," he confirmed. "I've never had a dream like this. I've never... woken up..." the genius grunted in disgust and motioned to his crotch.

She somehow managed to hide her surprise before responding, "Oh I see; it's not just that you were in a compromising scenario, but also that you had a 'wet dream'."

Sherlock raised his head and looked at her for the first time. "A what?"

"A wet dream, which is the informal term for nocturnal emissions—spontaneous orgasms while sleeping," Emily explained. She wondered how he managed to make it out of puberty without ever experiencing one.

He sighed dramatically and tipped his head to rest on the back of the chair to stare at the ceiling. Sherlock found it was easier to talk about this if he wasn't required to look at her and observe her reactions to what must be shocking revelations from a grown man well in his thirties.

She allowed him a little more time then asked, "Do you want to discuss the dream?"

He snorted and said to the ceiling, "God no! Every time I try and think about it..."

"That's fine," the therapist reassured him. "We don't have to talk about that if it makes you uncomfortable. I do suspect that it's bothering you enough that you would like assistance in how to cope with it."

"I've thought about kissing John before," Sherlock murmured more to himself than her. "I generally dislike others in my personal space, but I don't mind it if it's him. There are times when I would contrive occurrences where our hands would touch or force him to brush against me in the kitchen or doorway... I like being physically close to him."

"You feel safe allowing him that trust," she stated.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Until John, I always worked better alone. I find with him around my mind thinks more clearly. He has made himself indispensable to me. He is not luminous himself, but he is a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. And I genuinely enjoy his presence."

"Does John know that you see him this way?" She wondered.

Sherlock thought about it for a few seconds and answered, "I do tell him on occasion, but probably not as frequently as I should."

Emily smiled at the self-realization. That one admission proved to her that therapy was working for him. She decided to test the boundaries since he was being so candid at the moment.

"And how does that all relate to your latest overdose? You claim that John is a stable and important person in your life, typically that helps people to stay away from their addiction... that tells me something must happened to shake your faith and trust in the person whom you clearly see as your rock. Correct me if I'm wrong," she challenged.

Sherlock's lips quirked in a small smile, she was observant and ultimately hit the nail on the head. He liked that about her; it was the reason he continued to sit through these sessions. Emily saw through him and called him on his bullshit. As he did so with facts and evidence, she did with thoughts and feelings. He respected the hell out of her for that. Which was why he answered her question.

"How astute of you. I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that things couldn't go on forever as they were, that someday John would find a woman he would want to settle down with, get married, have children—boring!" He huffed the last part in irritation. "He continually dated these women who were wrong for him, I became more and more confident that it would be just he and I riding off into the sunset—which I realize is ridiculous—he's repeatedly stated that's he's 'not gay' but there you have it."

"So what happened? I'm guessing that John 'found the right woman'?" Emily interjected when his story had paused for longer than it should have.

"You're correct," Sherlock confirmed. "This one wasn't like the others... she wasn't driven off by our crazy and unpredictable schedule. She was smarter than the rest—more tolerable. I even started to like her. Then one night, John was in a right state... he showed me a ring that he bought for her, said he planned on proposing that weekend... I suddenly realized that if he did so, he'd move out, we'd more than likely lose touch, or he'd be less inclined to follow me all over London, especially with a wife and potential child..."

"Was that it?" the therapist prompted.

The genius took a deep breath and shook his head. "No—John's proposal plan was thwarted by a nasty string of serial hate crimes that were targeting patrons of a particular club. We pretended to be just another couple out for a night of fun... John danced with me, it was rather heated, his hands were sliding all over my body while he was 'grinding up on me'..." he hesitated here to ensure that he had used the correct terminology. After a small nod from Emily, he continued.

"I was surprised to find myself enjoying the experience; then I realized that John had an erection... I was confused, we were in the middle of a gay bar—there where only a handful of women and he didn't notice any of them. He was looking at me with this expression I've never seen on him before... then he just abruptly stalked off, claimed to need to visit the lavatory. I didn't know what to think, I was confused and angry—but if you had asked me then why I felt those things I'm not sure I could have answered."

Emily had a feeling she knew where his tale was headed and prompted, "Then what happened, Sherlock?"

Still staring at the ceiling, the genius responded, "Well I decided I needed some air—John is always stomping out of the flat declaring his need for it, so I thought it was a good time to employ his tactic. I went outside and around the corner to the side alley..."

"Let me guess—you got the shit beaten out of you," the therapist replied.

Sherlock nodded. "I was beaten badly enough to be hospitalized. John found me. He wasn't very happy with me that I went off on my own, but he stayed with me while I recovered... they gave me morphine, which hindsight wasn't the wisest choice, given that I'm an ex—was—an ex-addict. John and I never talked about what happened on the dance floor. And yes, I now recognize that was a downfall. But that was ultimately the catalyst for my descent back into drug use."

"Did John know that you were using again?" Emily asked softly. "What was his response or reaction to your hospitalization?"

"As I've said, he was angry with me for going off on my own," reiterated Sherlock. "I was able to hide my drug use from him at first, but he did eventually catch on—he knows me well enough to realize when I'm not myself. John started spending more time with me because he was suspicious at first and I pushed him away. He and the girlfriend started fighting more. I have just recently asked after the state of his relationship since I've been here—John had not mentioned her either before my inquiry."

Emily was silent for so long that Sherlock abandoned his task of mapping out every crevice in the ceiling to finally regard her at length. She had an odd look on her face that told him he was not going to like whatever it was that she was about to say.

"Have you ever expressed your feelings to John?"

And there it was.

"No—until very recently I very rarely discussed them at all. Again—just transport."

"Mmm," she answered noncommittally. Then, "How has that worked out for you so far?"

He gritted his teeth together and suddenly found the carpet fascinating.

"So not well then?"

"Considering I'm here, I'd say so," he snapped.

She exhaled loudly through her nose and told him, "I'd encourage you to express your feelings to John—at least to some degree beyond what you've done already. You've already built and sustained the harder foundation of friendship and that has remained steadfast despite the problems your relationship has encountered thus far. Your correspondence with him is going strong and I know you look forward to his letters. But give him some credit, don't write him off before he's even given you a response. Does that make sense?"

Sherlock took a moment to truly consider her words before nodding and replying, "Yes, it does."

{o0o}

It was much later in the day when Sherlock gingerly stepped into the shower and let the hot water cascade over his taut body. He was strung tighter than his bow, aching for a nameless need that he was only beginning to understand.

Imagines from the dream started to resurface now that he was in the privacy of his own room and he let them come freely this time instead of repressing them, as he'd done all day.

Allowing such thoughts led to another problem. Sherlock bit his lip and decided that just this once he could indulge in the fantasy.

It had surprised him; Sherlock thought that the dream would have featured a torrid sexual encounter that was fast paced and demanding. It was quite the opposite—it was sensual but nevertheless passionate. John wasn't shagging him into the mattress with wild abandonment, he was making love to him.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock let the scene replay out in his mind as he wrapped his bowing hand around his now hard, throbbing member. He braced his forearm against the cool, slick tiles and rested his head into crook of his elbow.

 _Sherlock moaned in shameless pleasure as John thrust deeply into him. He slid his hands up the doctor's sweat-slicked back, feeling the powerful muscles flex instinctively beneath his fingertips._

 _His eyes slid shut on their own volition, much to his personal annoyance; he hadn't wanted to miss any thought or expression that crossed his lover's face. He wanted to memorize and catalogue every subtle nuance of this encounter._

 _There were lips at the pulse point of his neck, then teeth nipping at the delicate skin before that oh so clever tongue came out and laved apologetically at the spot. Sherlock angled his head further to give his blogger better access, which was immediately taken advantage of._

" _John..." the consulting detective gasped, trying to pull the man in question closer to him._

 _There was a chuckle from the doctor before his sex-roughened response was spoken directly into Sherlock's upturned ear, "You are so sexy like this, you know that? God, I could almost come looking at you, so wanton and strung out. No one's ever made me this hard..."_

 _His voice sounded like pure sex and an inexplicable shiver raced down Sherlock's spine at the sound of it. He had never felt so alive in his entire life—this was beyond anything he'd ever experienced before._

" _What was that?" John demanded._

 _Startled, as he was unaware he had said anything aloud, the genius said the thought that he hadn't entirely kept to himself. "If I had known how this felt, I would have had sex ages ago... no need for the drugs."_

 _John's eyes softened, and he responded, "There is something to be said though for the familiarity of the person you're engaged in it with."_

 _The genius smiled sweetly and questioned, "If I had asked for this before now, would you have denied me?"_

 _Again, that laugh which Sherlock not only heard and saw, but felt as well through their union. He immediately decided he wanted to re-experience the sensation, repeatedly._

" _You know I can't deny you anything," was the answer he received._

 _The younger man was about to respond to that when a devilish look crossed his blogger's face before a hard, well timed thrust nailed his prostate, effectively robbing him of the ability to speak._

 _Sherlock whined in desperation, he was so close. John's eyelids fluttered shut and rested his forehead against his best friend's sweat dampened curls. They rocked together for several glorious moments, sharing the same breath._

 _Then the doctor lifted his head, causing the consulting detective to look back up at him and when he did, he saw that those beloved indigo eyes were dangerously, intensely bright as he gazed down at Sherlock._

 _Then he said just above a whisper, "I love you."_

 _Still locked in a gaze almost more intense than their lovemaking, Sherlock's spine bowed off the bed as he climaxed so forcefully that the entire world, except for John, faded away into blackness._

He shuttered through his orgasm, legs trembling so badly that he barely remained standing. Sherlock stood under the hot spray, letting the rivulets of water wash away the evidence of his reaction. It was several long minutes later before he was finally able to rally enough strength to push away from the shower wall to dry himself off.


	9. Chapter 9: Do You Understand?

221b Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

12 June, 201-

Dear Sherlock,

I will get out the lot of my journals for you to read upon your return then; prepare to be massively entertained. I'm sure I was drunk when I wrote half of them. Oh, why be so humble now? You know you're a genius—you hardly need me to tell you that. And yes, you are that clever and you know it. I resent the fantasy comment, my blog is completely factual.

You were just being so candid, I thought I'd ask. We never discuss this sort of thing. I just want to know what your thoughts on sex are.

What can I say? I'm just that kind of guy—thoughtful to a fault :) I hope you enjoy the book and that it brings some small measure of comfort.

Ugh—don't remind me of that horrendous nickname, please! It started as a joke and unfortunately stuck. And just for the record: there is no 'taming' me. As you've said, if anyone is doing the tying, it's me doing it. I'd like to see you loosen up a bit, so what would that take, I wonder?

Religion is another subject we've never discussed, and it's not like I go around advertising my background. It's understandable that you wouldn't have known that I was raised Catholic. I was even an alter boy if you can believe it, went through Confirmation and everything. I haven't been to mass in years though. The last time I stepped foot in a church was my dad's funeral… well—that's not true. Yours was the last time. I have seen horrible things as a combat medic, yes. It occasionally haunts me, but not as badly as it used to. 'Thrill of the macabre' you say? I suppose you are right, part of me does need that excitement, the adrenaline rush. I do my best work under pressure. Doctors cannot afford to show any weaknesses, especially in war. Or in front of their all-knowing flatmates, for that matter.

Wow—that's… thank you. That's highly considerate of you. I think that therapy is working for you. But you know either way that we're okay, right? Sherlock, you're my best friend and I overlook a lot of your idiosyncrasies because I enjoy the time we spend together. God knows if I didn't, I would not have stayed. That said, you need to take better care of yourself. I cannot find you in a crack house like that again—I just can't. I've never been so worried and scared in my entire life—and I was in a bloody war! Do you understand? You thought that your 'suicide' affected me. Well, that would be nothing compared to what I would feel if you were to overdose. As not only your doctor but also your best friend, that would be completely devastating—knowing that I should have been able to see the signs and have intervened before it came to that. I can't lose you, Sherlock. I just can't. You realize that this is the first time we've talked about this…

I am one who loved not wisely but too well.

John

{o0o}

 _Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _20 June, 201-_

 _Dear John,_

 _Seeing as we won't see eye to eye on the topic of your blog, I will just leave the conversation where it stands at the present, considering that we've talked about this before and have not made any headway in either direction._

 _We have never discussed the subject of sex because it is something I am not entirely at ease with to be quite honest. As you know, I am a very private person but since we're being honest with each other and I have made a promise to my therapist, I found the whole concept of sex rather off-putting. I am not the type of person to simply fall into bed with every suitable mate. If I were to do so, it would be with one whom I find worthy of my affection and attention. Those people are few and far between and to date I have only found one with whom I have considered taking such actions towards._

 _Indeed, you are thoughtful to a fault. You are a rare breed, John Watson. I find my life has very much improved thanks to your companionship—current circumstances notwithstanding. I think—and I'm sure you'd agree—that I am not the same person I was when you first met me._

 _I do enjoy the tales your army mates tell of your escapades—or as they put it 'sex-capades'. You have quite the reputation my dear doctor… No taming you? I beg to differ; I can cite multiple occasions to which you've bent to my whim without so much as a bat of an eye. I assure you that I am quite capable of 'loosening up'. The how of it is completely circumstantial._

 _You are correct, we've never talked about religion before. Over the years I have found that you can tell a lot about someone's feelings of guilt and self-righteousness based on their religious beliefs. Based on your strong sense of morals, it is not surprising to discover that you were raised Catholic. It is interesting that despite receiving the sacraments of Confirmation, you specifically used the term 'raised Catholic', which leads one to believe that you no longer practice or hold the same beliefs. Did your exposure to war change your point of view towards your faith? I admit that you are exceptional under pressure and I find that invaluable as your expertise has saved my life on more than one occasion. It is highly unlikely that one can keep their weaknesses under wraps all the time. There comes a point where everyone slips. What are you worried about me seeing?_

 _John… I had no idea that you blame yourself for this—please don't the responsibility is all my own. It is by no means your fault that I am unable to cope with emotions the rest of the populace seems to be able to handle. I'm at a loss in the face of your sentiment. I didn't know you felt so strongly about our partnership. I will say that the feeling is mutual. Though I do not express it as often as I probably should, I hold you in the highest regard. And that is part of the reason I make regrettable decisions on occasion—I trust in your ability to pull me out of whatever situation I've managed to get myself into. That is an unfair expectation, as it puts undue pressure on you and you are not ultimately responsible for my actions; before you wonder why this statement seems completely out of character, I've just had this same conversation this morning with Emily and she has pointed this out to me. Perhaps it's also easier to discuss these things when not confronted with the immediate reaction of the other—though I do confess that I feel at a significant disadvantage; I am out of my depth here and the inability to observe your reaction to my words puts me ill at ease._

 _To be, or not to be: that is the question._

 _Sherlock_

{o0o}

221b Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

29 June, 201-

Dear Sherlock,

I think that it's quite virtuous that you can remain above the whole trap of sexual attraction. There are definitely times I wish I could have remained above it all, I've made some regrettable decisions as far as bedfellows go. That singular person you've considered for such attention must be a very special indeed. I've never seen you show any interest in anyone though… But since this is a particularly sensitive subject, I will respect your privacy and not press you further. If you wish to continue the discussion, I will obviously engage in it with you.

I'm flattered and humbled to receive such high praise from you. I do agree, you have come a long way since we first met, Sherlock. You are much more thoughtful and caring now. We've changed each other quite a lot, I'd think.

My sex-capades?! Good lord—that's the last time I leave you and Bill alone in a pub. My reputation is an unfortunate side effect of my younger, wilder days. And no—you have not 'tamed' me! What precisely do you mean that I've 'bent to your whim on multiple occasions'?! I merely indulge you, Sherlock. And I'm talking about being 'tamed' in the bedroom.

Let's suffice it to say that I have my issues with the Church and their standpoint on certain things. That doesn't mean I don't still have my beliefs. I will say that I do like this new pope, I think he'll go a long way in bringing people back. Since you're clearly phishing for more information, I do believe there is a God. War changes your views on a significant number of things, religion is chief among them. Thank you for the compliment, but it is the reason I became an army doctor in the first place. You seem to do an exceptional job hiding your weaknesses. If you're implying that everyone slips, then that means you yourself are not immune to doing so—enlighten me. All I'm saying is there have been a number of times where you have used things against me; sometimes I feel like I'm under a microscope and that everything I do is being examined to the -enth degree. You sometimes exploit that information. I'm just saying this in general terms, not anything specific that I'm willfully attempting to hide from you.

When I was growing up, my gran told me once 'you need to learn to be uncomfortable and inconvenienced because anything worth doing is going to make you feel both'. I guess I've always remembered that; there have been multiple times over the course of our friendship that you, Sherlock Holmes, have made me extremely uncomfortable… but I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. And I have to say that I enjoy that you're out of your depth here—you are now getting a taste of how I feel the majority of the time. We're now on even turf, you and me. You don't have your senses to rely on and it requires you to just go off the words I've penned here. I imagine that scares the hell out of you. I like that you're being so open and honest with me; we don't have these conversations, as we've already said.

Along that line, there is something that has been bothering me for a while. That night at the club, you know, the string of gay bashing hate crimes? Why did you run out? You've never told me why you left. I've been going over the whole incident over and over again and I can't figure out what caused you to just go off on your own—especially after you had agreed _not to_ in this instance.

I think this next quote is very fitting for you:

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts.

John

* * *

 **Sorry for the delay! My 2 betas are studying for a licensure exam and writing scores of psychological evals respectively-and alas! Johnlock has to wait. But lots of love to The Frav for editing this for me :***


	10. Ch 10: Uncomfortable and Inconvenienced

_Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _5 July, 201-_

 _Dear John,_

 _It has come to my realization that your birthday will more than likely be upon you by the time this letter reaches you. I'm sorry that I will not be able to celebrate with you. And yet again I have not gotten you a gift, forgive me. I need to be a better friend to you; I promise to make it up to you. Either way, I hope your day is enjoyable nonetheless and that Mrs. Hudson baked you her famous scones. Happy birthday._

 _I very much appreciate you understanding that intimacy is an issue I struggle with, which is not entirely surprising given that I am rubbish at handling emotional situations. Both are messy and require a level of psychological intuitiveness that I simply do not possess. I do feel that Emily has come a long way in helping me in this matter._

 _Perhaps I do not tell you enough how invaluable you are to me. You should know, John, that you are indispensable. I have never had such a steadfast companion—someone willing to call me their friend and express their genuine concern over my continued well-being. For that I am very grateful. I would be lost without my blogger._

 _Your friend Bill Murray has been a wellspring of information about your past—you must allow me to converse with him! What was he telling me about an adventure you had in Thailand? I think that your nickname is still quite suited for you—tell me, how many women have you dated since you started living with me at Baker Street? The dictionary describes 'taming' as the act of making tame or domesticating, to subdue or curb, or to change from an uncontrolled or disorderly to a controlled state. Ergo—I have tamed John Watson. It is more than mere indulgence. As far as your prowess in the bedroom is concerned, I am unable to comment as I have no practical knowledge on the subject._

 _This pope is different in that he is firstly not European and has lived among his people—I do agree with you on that. I myself am not a religious man; I believe in cause and consequence, reason above all else. Organized religion is for the masses that struggle with their day to day lives. The idea that a deity would assist in something as trivial as maths exam is preposterous. I am pinioned by reason and that doesn't afford me the ability to consider an all-powerful being that can control my thoughts and actions. Having said that, there are times where I do wonder… I not saying this to put you down or call into question your beliefs—please do not misunderstand me. I am merely hoping to have an open dialogue on this theme and wish to know your thoughts. Do you pray? If so, what do you beseech of your god?_

 _Oh John, as ever you see but do not observe. If you knew what you were looking at, you would know that I have not hidden my weaknesses as well as you might think. In fact, there is a glaringly obvious one that has been staring you in the face, but you have not fully recognized it for what it is. You are by no means under a microscope (though that is an interesting prospect that I will have to consider for future scientific experiments). I cannot help that I am observant in certain things; what is the use in having the knowledge and not using it to one's advantage?_

 _Your grandmother had very wise words for you; I can now fully appreciate that sentiment. Know this, I am entirely uncomfortable and inconvenienced here. I am willing to admit that I am not the easiest person to get along with, and as I recently stated, you are the only person who has been willing to stay by my side this long. These last several months have put me on edge, especially in light of our more serious conversations. I do not know how my words are being perceived nor how you truly intend yours to be taken—yes, it scares the hell out of me. I have always been able to rely on my senses and to not be able to do so is sickening to me. But it is as you say: we are now even in this matter, here in this space. I find it easier to talk about certain things in writing though simply_ because _I do not have your immediate reaction accessible._

 _This is one topic that I feel very ill at ease discussing. Emily has been prodding me for weeks to discuss this with you. I have not wanted to, but since you've brought it up, I will not avoid it. She also warned me to preface this conversation by saying that the subsequent events are not your fault—like I've said before, it's rather a lack of coping ability on my end. While I see no advantage to caring, it seems I'm not immune, which as you know, led to the whole debacle with Moriatry—and yes, I should have learned my lesson; and yet here we are._

 _How much do you remember about that night prior to my unfortunate physical altercation? We were on the dance floor, and since I cannot see your face, I will admit that I briefly forgot about the case. I never understood the appeal of dancing and gyrating to such music, but I did that night with you. I noticed that you… I apologize for sounding crass but there is no delicate way to say this—you had an erection, I could feel it pressing into my thigh. I thought perhaps you'd seen an attractive female, but there weren't any of your type in the club that night and you were giving me this peculiar expression before you suddenly took yourself off to the lavatory. I was… upset and feeling bereft at your departure considering… that. You always leave the flat claiming to need air whenever you're annoyed with me (yes, I notice this) and I thought I might as well try it. It turned out to be an unwise decision on my part. I hope this has answered your question in a satisfactory manner._

 _Hmm, yes that is fitting for me, I think. Let me find one for you…_

 _The better part of valor is discretion._

 _Sherlock_

{o0o}

221b Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

13 July, 201-

Dear Sherlock,

Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate that you actually remembered my birthday. Mrs. Hudson did make me her scones, they were delicious! Overall, I had a good day; I managed to help Greg solve a case—amazing, right? And then he and Dimmock took me out to the pub afterwards. You missed the excitement—Mike started hitting on this lady and it was only after he was like five drinks in that he realized she was actually a transvestite. It was kind of hilarious to watch. Honestly, the best birthday gift you can give me is to get better, complete the program so that you can come back to me healthy with all your unique brilliance.

I miss you.

I understand that matters of intimacy are difficult for you; they are for a lot of people, actually. Relationships are messy and complicated and there is not true reasoning and rationale behind them. This is the why you have struggled so much with them, I think. I'm glad that Emily is helping you figure things out. I owe her a debt of gratitude for our recent ability to discuss these things openly with one another and through that, our ability to be closer to each other.

Bill Murray delights in telling salacious tales—nothing more. I have no idea what you're talking about—nothing happened in Thailand... except meeting a lovely group of ladies with whom I had a few drinks. Believe me—you know nothing of my prowess. Yet again, I indulge you. I am not some trained house pet, despite what Moriatry thought.

It doesn't surprise me that you don't believe in God, so I am not offended by your questions. I know that you're just trying to understand. I think that there is a difference between 'religion' or being 'religious' through the followings of an organized church and being spiritual. I would classify myself as the latter. I do pray, but that is something extremely personal and I wish to still keep it that way.

What am I missing? When ever have you shown any kind of weakness? You state that there is 'a glaringly obvious one staring me in the face', but I don't understand… Sometimes I think you fail to realize how intense you are—not everyone has the ability to read the littlest fleck of dust and deduce their entire life story. There are moments where I feel that I can't hide anything from you, even my personal thoughts. It's exhausting. I will not put myself under a microscope for you, Sherlock. Having certain knowledge puts you at an unfair advantage.

I think you would have liked my gran, she certainly would have loved you. I'm sorry—it took me a few minutes to get over the fact that you willingly admitted that you're not easy to get along with. Don't worry, I'm just taking the piss. I do genuinely enjoy spending time with you, everyone else is really boring in comparison. Be honest: would we have had half of these conversations if we were face to face? I want to be able to talk freely with you about these difficult topics. I look forward to your letters. This is good for us—this conversation.

Ahh. Well… I owe it to you to be honest since you are making such an effort to be candid with me. I've thought about that encounter hundreds of times since that night. I enjoy dancing and it was so nice to see you just let go for once—it doesn't happen often, and I cherish those moments when you do. You were wearing that damned purple shirt, your cologne smelt fantastic, and you were rubbing all up against me. The odd look you saw was probably me having a revelation; since you see every bloody little thing, I needed to just take a breather and give myself some time and space to process those thoughts. I didn't stop to think how that would have made you feel, me just disappearing like that. But I'll answer the question you're ultimately asking between the lines here—I was hard because of _you_. Don't worry, I know it's all just transport for you. I don't want this to affect our friendship. Though it already has I suppose… I'm such an idiot! I can see how that set off a chain reaction…

So… does that mean you're gay? Or at least prefer men? I know you hate it when I repeat things, but it's fine. Either way, you are who you are and that doesn't change what's between us. Christ—I'm a self-proclaimed straight man and I just confessed to getting a hard-on dancing with my quite male best friend. I have no room to talk.

I leave the flat because I don't want to accidentally say something that I don't necessarily mean in a fit of anger.

All that glisters is not gold.

John


	11. Chapter 11: Playing the Devil's Advocate

Greg propped his head up in his left hand while he wrapped his right around the handle of his beer mug. He raised one eyebrow and looked steadily back at his mate.

He let the silence stretch on between them for a few more seconds before he finally said, "You know... I think it's possible that it's just Sherlock. Sure, he's a bloke, but there's no one else like him, is there?"

John exhaled slowly and responded with a sardonic smile, "No, there isn't."

"And thank God for that!"

Both men laughed heartily before the detective inspector became somber again. "But if you want my honest opinion, I think that it's more about who you have a connection with than what they are. In the end we're all just flesh and bone—what's it really matter if that person is male or female?"

John contemplated that for a moment, staring down into the foam in his lager.

Greg continued, "I had a friend once tell me to look at difficult situations like this: who could you willingly walk away from and who can't you? The person that you can't imagine living without is worth extra consideration..."

He paused here and waited for John to make eye contact with him before he said his final thought on the matter. "I think we know each other pretty well, yeah? You know that I don't pull any punches and I don't sugarcoat things. I didn't get this far at NSY by being oblivious—despite what your prat of a flatmate says. After his... incident... at Bart's, you were miserable, John. It broke my heart to see you going through this half-existence. I never saw you so happy as when he came back... I think that you need him as much as he needs you—that in itself says a lot."

"It's just... I don't know..."

"You do know that half the Met already thinks you two are together, right?"

"Yes, yes I'm fully aware of that."

"Then what's the hang up?"

John let out a frustrated sigh and rested his head on the back of the booth. His reply was directed at the ceiling. "What if I give in to these... let's face it—more than strictly platonic feelings I have for him—and after 'trying it out', he decides that it's not really what he wants after all?"

A fond smile played across the DI's face. "You don't see what I see—the looks he gives you when he thinks no one is watching. I'm confident in saying that you shouldn't worry about that. Sherlock is completely smitten with you. And if you want proof, he's never let anyone as far into his life as he has you—and let's be honest since we're on a roll here—Bart's... well... that was all about you mate. He so highly regards you that he willingly faked his own death to save you. Now me and you, we signed up for jobs that require us to make that ultimate sacrifice if necessary; but Sherlock... he's another story."

John mimicked Greg's pose and gazed across the scarred wooden table between them. "Oddly enough... it doesn't bother me anymore—the idea of being with a man, it's more or less the idea of being with Sherlock specifically. But you're right. I know he tries, especially with me. I just don't want to lose him—I'm not strong enough to go through that again."

Greg gave him a long, searching look before he asked, "I have some hard questions for you—you don't have to answer it if you don't want to. Just trying to help you figure this out."

"Okay," John replied with a hint of trepidation.

"Well, the most obvious part—Sherlock is a bloke… how do you feel about sex with a man? I'm assuming you'd want a proper relationship and all it entails with our mad genius."

"Ahh. Well… it, umm, it wouldn't be the first time…"

"Really? I have to say that I'm kinda surprised, given how much you enjoy the ladies. What was it your old army mate had called you? Three Continents Watson?"

With a huff of agitation, the doctor explained, "Yes, it's a rather unfortunate nickname. And yes, you know I'm a lady's man, but that doesn't mean I didn't experiment at uni. And on my first tour, females were few and far between, so…"

The Detective Inspector grinned. "Good on you mate! Never been with a man myself—was always too scared. But I guess in the middle of the desert you'd simply take what you can get."

"Yeah, something like that," John admitted with a laugh. "Though to be honest, I really just enjoy sex—being intimate with someone."

"But you're not gay… why the push-back when everyone makes assumptions about you and Sherlock then?"

"No, not gay. Maybe bi-curious, I could live with that. I just really hate others prying—it's none of their damn business. When people make that assumption, it's usually when we're in the middle of an investigation—it annoys me that they're being so unprofessional to worry about something so inconsequential to their own lives," the doctor said, staring down into his pint with a scowl.

"Hey—I get it," Greg empathized. "I don't disagree with you on that. Playing the devil's advocate though, how do you think it makes him feel when you're so adamant about denying it?"

John was silent for a long moment before he sighed heavily and replied, "I never actually thought about it before… you know— 'Mr. It's All Just Transport', never thought that it could just be front, that he'd hide his true feelings. God—I'm such an idiot!"

"I wouldn't be too hard on yourself."

"Greg, you don't get it—he's my best friend. I know him better than anyone on this planet and if I'm too short-sighted to consider his feelings, then where does that leave him?"

"Well, for one, Sherlock sure as hell doesn't make it easy, now does he?" the DI remarked with a snort as he brought his glass up to take a sip.

"That's for sure," John agreed readily and took a long drink from his own pint.

Something shifted on his friend's face, softening his expression before he asked, "Which brings me to my next question; do you love him?"

John sat back in against the seat and answered Lestrade, "I do. So help me, God—I love the crazy bastard more than life itself."

He surprised himself by the calm certainty and truth behind his words. It was the first time he had fully admitted to anyone, including himself.

* * *

 _Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _18 July, 201-_

 _Dear John,_

 _I'm glad that you had a pleasant birthday—it sounds like quiet the day. I am not surprised, however, that you were able to assist Lestrade on a case. You know my methods and your skills and powers of deduction have grown exponentially in the last few years. I am very proud of you. Know that I am putting forth my best efforts to get better—I can promise you that._

 _I miss you as well, more than words can express._

 _Your excursion in Thailand sounds tame in comparison to Bill's—just drinks with the ladies? I was led to believe that you had quite the romp with them. I was unaware that you were into group sex like that, John. Is it truly possible to bed three women at once? How do they all gain satisfaction?_

 _In your opinion, what is the classifying difference between being religious versus spiritual? I can appreciate the subtle nuances in the definition and contract of them both._

 _Did you spray your last letter with cologne?! Why is the page saturated with the unmistakable scent of Versace Eros? Am I a 13-year-old girl that you feel the need to woo?_

 _John… the fact that I am a recovering addict is sign enough that I have glaring weakness. I think that yet again you do not give yourself enough credit for the impact you have made on my life. You, John Watson, are by far my biggest weakness. The one person who has remained faithfully steadfast at my side despite having no real return on the investment to which you've given me… I owe you a tremendous debt of gratitude. I assure you that your personal thoughts are still your own as I am not a mind reader despite what others may think. You have a fairly expressive face and it is, occasionally, easy to deduce your line of thinking based on the degree of your raised eyebrow or the twitch of an eye, the quirk of your lip. I now can understand that might be exhausting for you—my sincerest apologies, it was never my intention to make you feel this way. My abilities are both a blessing and a curse at times. As you well know it hasn't gained me many true friends._

 _I'm sure that I would have liked your grandmother as well, based on the stories you've told me. Thank you—you know that I enjoy your company and that says something considering I cannot stand to be in most people's presence for extended periods. I believe you are the first person to tell me that you actually_ like _spending time with me. Despite my uncomfortability with the sensitive nature of the things we've discussed—or_ because _of it—is the reason I am willing to discuss them here in letter form with you. As I've said before, this forum is much easier to disclose sensitive subject matter. As much as I would like to say that we would have these conversations face to face, I know otherwise. I do feel the same, that having this tête-à-tête is good for us._

 _Gay, straight, bisexual—what does it really matter? They are all just labels in the end. But to directly answer your question, I find men more visually appealing and stimulating. If that makes me gay, so be it._

 _Three things: yes, you are an idiot—however I am quite fond of you. The chain reaction that ensued was by no means your fault. And… what if I_ want _it to affect our friendship? I know you repeatedly claim to not be gay, but have you concluded that there are exceptions to every rule?_

 _Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind._

 _Sherlock_


	12. Chapter 12: Je Ne Sais Quoi

221b Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

24 July, 201-

Dear Sherlock,

I do think I have learn quite a bit from you over the years; I won't ever aspire to your level—obviously—but it definitely has helped in my medical practice as well. Your praise means a lot to me, thank you. I am extremely proud of you as well; I can tell just based on our conversation that you are working hard there. I know this is extremely difficult, but it will be worth it in the end.

Again—Bill tells nothing but outrageously lewd stories. I don't mind group sex on occasion, but to be honest, it's not really my cup of tea. I'm more of a one partner at a time kind of guy. I like to ensure that my lover is well taken care of. And it is possible to satisfy multiple partners at once—I've found that it takes copious amounts of alcohol though ;)

So I have always thought that the difference between being religious versus spiritual is that the former ultimately dictates to the participant what their thoughts on the divine are. For example, I had a deacon once tell me that to consider oneself Catholic, it's imperative that you believe in transubstantiation. There is also the element of Original Sin… I just can't bring myself to believe that a newborn infant is condemned to hell merely because it's not baptized. With that said, being spiritual (at least to me), gives an individual the ability to interpret their own thoughts on the soul and the divine without someone else deciding that for them. Despite this, I have tried in the past to go to other Christian denominations for services, but I have never felt comfortable in any besides a Catholic church. I have occasionally gone to mass when I felt the need to. As you already know, it's been a significant amount of time since I've felt that particular compulsion. I know that you are about cause, consequence, and reason, but do you believe in anything? How do you explain phenomena like the Big Bang? Cosmic coincidence?

Was it covered in cologne? My apologies. Had a night out with Lestrade—I must have had the notepad on my nightstand while I was getting ready and sprayed it on accident. Regardless of that, I hope you find the scent of it pleasant enough.

I'm… your biggest weakness? I admit that when I read that part, I got a little choked up. I know that I have an expressive face and that you see more than most. It just makes me frustrated at times because I can't observe what you do, though I think I have been able to discern your thoughts and feelings in a lot of instances. I know that this particular ability has cost you a lot over the years.

I'm so very honored that you choose to spend your time with me. There are moments when I wonder why, what has made me different from everyone else?

Sherlock—what are you saying? You are the exception to every rule—you know that, right? Christ! I wish I could phone you right now! I can't believe we're having this conversation via snail mail! I'm dropping this letter in the post this evening—I just got yours this morning but I need to know what you bloody well mean _immediately_. What are we talking about here? You _want_ it to affect our friendship?! So, is it not all transport?

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

John

{o0o}

 _Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _31 July, 201-_

 _Dear John,_

 _As much as I complained initially, I already know that this has been worth it. We would not have deepened our relationship accept for this. I positively hate not seeing you, but the fact that we have gained this new level of intimacy with one another is worth every second I'm here._

 _So by your own admission, there is some truth to Bill's story! I knew it. I'm sure that a great many things seem possible with the right amount of alcohol… I have no doubt that you are a thorough lover, you would apply the same level of attentiveness that you exhibit in all other areas of your life. But how, pray tell, does one ensure that a sexual partner 'is well taken care of'?_

 _Based on your definitions, it would be safe to say that religion is for the blind masses of sheep whereas spirituality is more of a personal experience that one decides on their own. In regard to your questions, I have no explanation for the Big Bang, so I will not try and hypothesize as I have no information to draw any conclusions on the matter. You know that I do not believe in coincidences—the universe is rarely so lazy. Having said that, I must conclude that there is purpose and reason behind almost everything. Whether I would go so far as to say that there is a greater power working towards the betterment of humanity is a massive stretch._

 _I've always enjoyed the scent of your cologne. I find it comforting and to me it is a scent I've come to associate with home. Understand that this is something that I would not otherwise verbalize to you under different circumstances._

 _You most certainly have come closer than anyone else in learning my thoughts and feelings. It is quite remarkable that you have been able to understand them at times and know instinctively what I need in a given moment. This same skill is what makes you such an excellent doctor and an irreplaceable companion. This may be, in part, what sets you off from others. I admit that you have a certain…_ je ne sais quoi _. I wish I could give you an answer to this question, but I myself do not entirely know. What is for certain is that your friendship has been indispensable to me over the years and I trust you implicitly. I do not say this to you lightly._

 _Despite my statements to the contrary, you are an intelligent man, John—do keep up. You know exactly what I mean. You know I abhor physical contact, though I'm sure you've noticed during our time together that you are awarded much more liberties that anyone else. I cannot stop replaying our evening out at the club. Several weeks ago, I had a dream about you which has also been a great source of trouble for me. And no… it's 'not all just transport'. It hasn't been for quite some time. Given this and what you already know of me and from our letters, I charge you to_ make a deduction…

 _This is very midsummer madness._

 _Sherlock_


	13. Chapter 13: Brother Dear

_Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _1 August, 201-_

 _Brother Dear,_

 _This is perhaps long overdue, but I'm sure you'll overlook the lateness of it. You will want to keep this for posterity as it is very likely the only time I will ever utter or write an admission of this kind._

 _I have come to the realization that I have never thanked you properly for saving my life. On more than one occasion, as it were. I know I have given you a significant amount of trouble over the years. It has come to my attention that despite the fact you're an insufferable git, you mostly have my best interest at heart. The only person besides you that has had my back is John._

 _While I know you are worried that this is a simple ploy to get myself removed from this facility, I know you would not spring me early. I have done the required_ 'work' _and will be released of my own doing._

 _It was suggested that I might engage in such hazardous behaviors, specifically the drug use, because I know that ultimately you will not leave me long to suffer the consequences of my actions._

 _Rest assured that I have finally faced down my demons and have come out on top, though I might have dirtied my fluffy white tail in the process. I am confident in telling you that I've kicked the habit._

 _So… thanks._

 _~S._

{o0o}

::FROM THE DESK OF MYCROFT HOLMES::

10 Carlton House Terrace

London, SW1Y 5AH

UK

6 August, 201-

Dearest Brother,

I appreciate your letter, though I was not expecting it, given the state of our relationship. I hope that you realize that I am not the enemy; I am merely looking out for your best interest.

You must know, Sherlock, that I care for you. After all, you are my little brother and I do have a soft spot for you. That, perhaps, is my downfall. I enable you; it is as you've said. I will not allow you to kill yourself—in the true sense. You have a singularly gifted mind, I abhor to think it lost to substance abuse. It is my greatest fear; that is why I allow you to continue to run around playing detective, as I know that you will find a way out of those situations.

As you are rarely willing to accept my help unless it's under extreme duress, I must admit that I am glad that you have the good doctor to look after you in my stead. Between the two of us, hopefully we can keep you alive awhile longer. He is a good man, John Watson—you should be lucky to have such a steadfast friend. Despite all your quirks, he somehow manages to overlook your transgressions. I sincerely hope that you have contemplated what that may suggest and give it the due consideration it fully deserves.

So that you are prepared, expect an invitation for tea to arrive shortly after your return to Baker Street. Her Majesty has requested an audience and would like you to regale her of firsthand accounts of your 'adventures'. Wear pants this time.

You are most assuredly welcome, my little brother.

M


	14. Chapter 14: Reframing

221b Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

5 August, 201-

Dear Sherlock,

I'm glad that you have finally seen that there is a good reason and purpose for you being in rehab. As they say, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder".

You will never get me to admit that there is any truth behind Bill Murray's tales, so take from that what you may. How does one take care of their partner?! Do you not know? I imagine it would be quite easy for you, given that you are so very good at reading people. It really just requires you to be attuned to your lover and aware of their little signs and you simply adjust your ministrations accordingly. I try to make sure that my partner is completely satisfied before I seek my own pleasure—that's really what it comes down to in the end. Foreplay is great for this reason alone, that and the fact that it prolongs the experience. I cannot believe we are having this conversation!

Your reframing of my definitions on religion and spirituality would be accurate—though I won't go as far to call people who practice religion 'blind masses of sheep', that's a bit harsh. I think that religion _or_ spirituality is a very personal thing that is not easily explained. It does greatly shape who someone is as a person though. You have expressed your feelings on there being no coincidences before… I find that interesting in light of your thoughts on a higher power. So, you don't believe in divine providence, but _do_ feel that things happen for a reason… I'm curious to know what your thoughts are on soulmates; do you believe that such a thing is possible?

I understand that you've been much more candid than usual in your letters. I appreciate your openness; what makes this form of communication easier for you than talking to me? I know you've always struggled expressing anything remotely resembling sentiment...

A dream about me? I'm flattered. What was it about? I hope it was something interesting and not us sitting about the flat or the morgue like you dreamed the one time. I would certainly not want to star in a vision where we're performing an autopsy. Though knowing you, that would be something you'd enjoy thinking about.

You're deflecting—you never answered my question about what you mean regarding your statement 'what if I want it to affect our friendship?'? Please, I need you to give me an answer. Are you saying that you want to take our relationship in a different direction, change the nature of it? While I am willing to make deductions on a great number of things, this is one area I refuse to do so because coming to the wrong conclusion could be disastrous for both of us.

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

John

{o0o}

 _Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _14 August, 201-_

 _Dear John,_

 _I do finally see that there is a purpose for me being here and I have understood that for quite some time now. Absence makes one miserable and miss that easy companionship; the fondness was preexisting._

 _John, you ask if I do not know about taking care of one's partner—think. I have already expressed that I do not like the physical touch of most people, this is the biggest clue to you question. I will have to test your theory on my ability to reading people and apply it to this particular setting. It does not surprise me to learn that you satisfy your lovers before taking your own pleasure—again, that is how you are with most things in your life. I do notice how you attend to my needs at home before you seek your own comfort. I want you to know that I see this, and I know that I have to do better in this regard for you and not be as selfish as I have been in the past._

 _I suppose you're right, religion and/or spirituality is a personal experience and despite my research on the matter, I fear that I must leave the subject be as it seems I cannot get any further than what I've learned already. There is no proof of a higher power, but I have had some things happen that I am at a loss to explain. This is not enough to sway my opinion on the issue. Are you referring to soulmates in the romantic sense? I do believe that there might be something to idea, that two people can be uncommonly compatible with one another. My mother and father seem to have a deeper connection that most couples, what characteristics he lacks my mother makes up for and vice versa. If you ask them, they will both tell you they are soulmates. I will say that the more I reflect on this, the more plausible it seems. What are your thoughts?_

 _There are several errors in your last assessment on this matter. I'm not entirely uncomfortable expressing certain things—I've disclosed countless utterances of sentimentality to you. It's hardly any fault of my own if you chose to ignore them. But back to matter in question: I find it easier to express certain things without having to clarify myself in the next breath. This affords me additional time to think and process my words as this is entirely new to me and I am not entirely comfortable divulging my innermost thoughts in such a fashion. I trust that you understand that this is, on some level, difficult for me. I am trying my best to move beyond my comfort zone in this for your sake and for the continued well-being of our partnership. I am extremely out of my depth here and am admittedly feeling quite vulnerable discussing this._

 _And you should be flattered, I've never thought about another person as I do you. As to the content of the dream… it was rather intimate in nature. Remember our out night at the club and then imagine what would have happened had we continued along that same vein… what I'm sure no less than a dozen other couples on that dance floor left with one another went home to engage in that evening._

 _This is somewhat exasperating. I don't want to lose what we have, but there are times I wonder what would happen if we changed the nature of our relationship. I find myself contemplating certain things about you that are not strictly platonic._

 _Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?_

 _Sherlock_


	15. Chapter 15: Emotionally Vulnerable

221b Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

22 August, 201-

Dear Sherlock,

I went back and read your previous letters and I can't believe how far you've come whilst there. I know you have done a lot of work with your therapist and our conversation is a testimony to that. It's quite incredible, really. I am rather fond of you too, by the way.

I am a caregiver at heart, that's who I've always been. It's natural for me to ensure that my partners are taken care of, whether that person be my lover or my flatmate. I appreciate your desire to do better. I want you to notice the things that you do for me—the tea and toast on mornings when you're up before me and you know I have to work at the surgery, the special ointments you have created for my various muscle problems, saving me the last jammie dodger…

At some point, I'd like to hear what those experiences are that you've had that can't be explained—if you're willing to discuss them. They must be significant for you to not to be able to explain. I was referring to soulmates in any sense, whatever definition you chose to apply to the term. I've always thought of it as a person that you can't imagine being without in addition to your thoughts on two people being 'uncommonly compatible'. I think that's very sweet about your parents… as for me, I like the word 'soul' and I like the word 'mate'…

You've expressed "countless utterances of sentimentality"?! Who are you and what have you done with my flatmate? More like maybe a dozen times over the course of our entire friendship, Sherlock. But I'm deeply touched and grateful that you are making the effort. I know that this is difficult for you; it pains me to think of you being so emotionally vulnerable... that's something I must examine about myself, why that thought affects me like it does. I wish we were having this conversation in person—this is so agonizingly slow. I get it, though, that this is easier for you and for that reason I will suffer in silence. Just know that I always have been and always will be here for you.

Sherlock… I'm—wow… I've thought about your last letter for two days and I'm still just as speechless today as I was when I first read it. But I must admit that once you put the thought into my mind, I can't seem to _stop_ thinking about it… I already thought a lot about that night at club, so the fact that your dream was what a continuation of those… events… _could_ have become… more intimate in nature…

I wouldn't be opposed to changing the nature of what's between us… Since you have been so honest admitting this, I shall do the same: I've had thoughts and feelings for you that are not platonic. I think it's safe to say that this is a mutual thing? We're admitting that we're attracted to each other?

The course of true love never did run smooth.

John

{o0o}

 _Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _30 August, 201-_

 _Dear John,_

 _It is true, I do feel as if I have come along way in my personal journey. Though I was not initially such a fan of my therapist, Emily has been wonderful. I owe her much._

 _I do attempt to make efforts with you. There are mornings that I know you've slept in because I've kept you out on a case, despite you having to get up early. Tea and toast are the least I can do; after all, you become rather stroppy when you haven't eaten. The ointments aren't worth mentioning, really. You were in pain and I was able to come up with a way to alleviate it—it was nothing more that that._

 _I think that this discussion on spirituality does warrant further contemplation; this would be a lovely chat with coffee and a nice fire going. I shall then indulge you with my inexplicable experiences. Forgive me for saying this, but there are times that I can't help but draw parallels between my parents' relationship and ours. Hear me out: I say this because we are 'uncommonly compatible', are we not? You make me a better version of myself and we function so much better together as a team. I cannot imagine my life without you, John. The thought is singularly terrifying to me._

 _I jumped off a building for you! What more can I do to prove to you that I have expressed, what to me, is a lifetime of sentiment towards you?! Have I not been sincere in my efforts? Though it has occurred to me that perhaps you have not fully understood the true nature of my intentions, I have not made them as overt as I could have. John, I have let you into my life farther than any other person—that makes you special. Though I think you know that much._

 _I feel extremely vulnerable having disclosed such a personal thought about the dream. You know that is far from my area of expertise. I hope that the fact that you can't stop thinking about it is a good thing? Being intimate with me isn't off-putting to you?_

 _So here is where we stand then—we both seem to want more than a strictly platonic relationship with one another, that is a mutual attraction. I oddly enough feel better for having discussed this with you, but I'm at a loss for where we ultimately go from here._

 _What's in a name? A rose by any name would smell as sweet._

 _Sherlock_

* * *

 **Hope you guys are enjoying the story so far! Lots of love to The Frav for being my beta. She said that she loves that there is so much tension building between them as they start to discuss and move along with their thoughts and feelings for each other: cautious yet slightly bold. Hope you share some of the same sentiment.**

 **The ending is already finished, I'm just wrapping up a few bridge scenes here and there-I promise it's a juicy one and worth the wait ;)**

 **Enjoy your 5th of November celebrations to the Brits in the audience.**


	16. Chapter 16: My Exception

"I want to briefly revisit a topic from the past. You have shared you initially got into drugs because of boredom. But the last time you overdosed wasn't because of that. What was different that time than the others? What changed?" she wondered, her blond head tilted to the side to show her curiosity.

"I just... I needed something that would dull the pain. I couldn't take it..."

"What caused the pain? What did you react so badly to that you thought cocaine the answer?" Emily pressed, wanting to hear the genius say the words, as there was a method to her madness. They had indeed been over this before, but revisiting this conversation was necessary to broach the next topic.

"John buying an engagement ring for his girlfriend, and then us dancing at the club—his physical reaction to my presence but the denial of any kind of reciprocal feelings on his part at the time."

"But you didn't discuss your feelings with him at that time—he didn't know how you felt about that situation," she countered.

He signed heavily and responded, "You're right. I made assumptions—though they were based on past experiences so they seemed like sound judgment at the time."

"So fear of possible rejection from John based on previous encounters?"

"Well, when he constantly proclaimed 'not gay' any time someone merely hinted that we might be more than flatmates or friends, yes—I'd say I was well within reason for my thinking."

Emily nodded in understanding as she empathized, "It's difficult when we have feelings for someone and they unknowingly shun them without fully understanding."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock grimaced as he relived several painful instances where his blogger had done just that. His therapist gave him a moment to have his thoughts.

After months of intense therapy, she knew he was finally ready to answer her next question out loud. "What are your feelings towards John?"

"I..." he took a deep, shuddering breath. "I... love... him. Not in a friendship sort of way, but in the sense that I want to kiss him, be intimate with him, wake up next to him in the morning."

"How does it feel to finally say these things aloud?"

"Equally freeing and somewhat terrifying to be honest."

"Both are perfectly normal and acceptable responses," Emily advised softly. "I know I have suggested that you express, or at least partially express, some of your thoughts and feelings to John. Have you?"

"Yes, though I have not divulged the true extent of my feelings for him. We talked about that night at the club and our mutual... reactions... to one another.  
I had mentioned to him that I wanted to look at shifting the nature of our relationship."

"What was John's response to that suggestion?"

"He seems open to it, I think. It doesn't seem like he's put off by the idea at least," Sherlock confided to her.

She gave a nod and said, "That's encouraging. Have you given thought to how you are going to address this with him when you get home?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and blew it out slowly before answering.

{o0o}

"In light of all this, what emotions are you feeling right now?"

Sherlock sat back in his chair and exhaled slowly before he answered, "Hopeful, excited, nervous, scared..."

Emily nodded in approval then said, "Good, now let's break those down. Which is the most prevalent?"

He answered without hesitation, "Scared, because I have always—except under very rare circumstances—been able to trust my deductions, but this is one situation in which I cannot. I only have John's words to go on, no other clues to base my thoughts on—no context."

"And that scares you why?"

"Because what if I'm wrong?" Sherlock asked quietly, his eyes pleading with her offer him some kind of reassurance.

The psychologist regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before she answered. "So you're worried that your assessment of his feelings is off-base and that he does not care you as you do him, correct?"

He nodded in agreement, so she continued. "What would happen then? Would John seek to end your friendship?"

Sherlock swallowed hard and stared intently at the carpet. "No..." he responded tentatively. "John isn't like that... he'd let me down gently and seek to move past any lingering awkwardness that would remain."

"Okay," Emily acknowledged, "how would you feel about that if it were the case?"

"I'd be grateful that he wouldn't shut me out, but..."

"You'd pine for him."

The genius looked back up and her and nodded again.

"And what if you're right?" she questioned.

A glimmer of hope shown in his light blue eyes as the consulting detective answered, "Then I can prove to him how much he means to me."

Emily smiled as she sat back in her chair. "Sherlock, I want you to know how proud I am of you for being not only able to discuss this, but also to able to admit your thoughts and feelings. This was a topic we weren't able to touch upon when we first started working together. You've put in a lot of effort and I want you to know that it definitely shows."

He nodded his head in acknowledgment. "John has also expressed that in his letters."

"See? He has also seen the work you've done. And based on our conversations, it is also what has allowed you to deepen your relationship with John—and that's what has allowed your friendship to be able to move into this new space that you want it to go," she pointed out.

It was true, Sherlock knew that without being here in this place at this particular time with this therapist, it was quite possible that he would not have gotten to where he is now. He really did owe Emily for teaching him how to express his emotions.

* * *

221b Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

6 September, 201-

Dear Sherlock,

You have done more for me than tea, toast, and ointment. You know that when I returned to London shortly before us meeting that I was in a bad way; I had contemplated using my gun to simply be done with it all… but then there you were… I should send Mike Stamford a gift basket for introducing us.

Sitting by the fire with coffee having a deep, meaningful chat sounds perfect. That is something we will definitely do come autumn. Based on what you've said, are you suggesting that we are soulmates? This leads me to me next query.

I honestly have no problem shifting things in a different direction, but I have reservations about where that would leave us in the event of less than favorable… results… of a change of the nature we are discussing.

What do you want, Sherlock? I just don't picture you wanting hand holding in the park, cuddles on the couch, kisses over dinner at Angelo's... please do correct me if I'm wrong. Do you want a proper relationship or is this just about sex? Please don't misunderstand my questions—either is fine and frankly you deserve both (if that's truly what you want); you've just seemed uninterested in any of it before. I had a brief moment when I thought perhaps Irene Adler might entice you to bed, but I was wrong as usual.

You know that you're special; you are my exception to almost every rule. Sherlock, you are my best friend-you're moody, annoying, and impossible to live with... but I wouldn't have you any other way. But, I would never be satisfied with just half a relationship—I want it all. It's not fair to you for me to pretend anything less than that would be okay. It would only lead to frustration and hurt feelings on both sides and I won't do that to you.

I think this is a conversation that we need to continue in person, there's no way to resolve this until we are face-to-face. You will be able to see my reactions to your words and vice versa. There cannot be room for any misunderstanding between us in this. I won't lose you, Sherlock. I've already told you that I can't go through that again.

I hope you get this letter before you leave, I know it's going to be cutting it close. Either way, I know we will figure it out. I can't wait to see you again.

What light through yonder window breaks?

Love,

John


	17. Chapter 17: Homecoming

Sherlock rounded the corner scanned the crowd waiting at the arrivals gate. His eyes lighted on a familiar figure, standing in parade rest stance. He knew at the very least Mycroft would have sent a car for him, but this... this was so much better. The genius hesitated only a moment, but at the sight of his doctor, he felt his pulse start to race.

How he had missed John! Returning from the dead had been difficult and brought its own problems, but this was different. Back then, he had still had these feelings but was as unaware of their meaning and he had not disclosed them to the older man. Now they both knew. He wasn't entirely sure what kind of reception he was about to receive. Though the fact that John was even here at all spoke volumes and was definitely encouraging.

{o0o}

John inhaled sharply as he saw that familiar curly head come through the gate. Dressed in his patent Spencer Hart suit and that bloody purple shirt, Sherlock looked good. Better than good. The doctor could hardly believe it had been six months because it had felt like an eternity.

It had done the consulting detective good, though. The younger man had filled out a little more and had a healthy pinkish hue to his skin—so much better than he had been the last time John had seen him, laying against the stark white hospital sheets. He quickly pushed that thought from his mind.

He knew the second that he was spotted; Sherlock hesitated ever so briefly that it was almost imperceptible except for the fact that his blogger knew him so well. He couldn't stop the smirk from forming as he witnessed the hesitation. Sherlock hadn't been expecting to see him just yet.

As the genius drew closer, neither one of them could stop the giddy smiles from crossing their lips.

Sherlock, heart pounding, stepped right into his blogger's space and leaned in for a hug. To his great relief, those strong, muscled arms that had saved him countless times before—and this was no exception—wrapped around him tightly.

"I missed you," he murmured into John's ear before he pulled back slightly to see his blogger's face.

The good doctor glanced at his lips before his eyes returned to Sherlock's. He responded softly in kind, "I've missed you too."

That look was all the genius needed to take a gamble on his action. Making his intentions very clear, he slowly and deliberately lowered his head to John's. He was overjoyed when his blogger closed the distance between them and met him halfway.

He sighed contentedly as he felt the slide of his doctor's lips along his. They were oh so soft, he hadn't been expecting that, but it was a pleasant surprise. It was brief and chaste, but it was electrifying.

Sherlock longed to deepen the kiss, but now was not the time or place. Standing in the middle of Heathrow International Airport was not the best choice of locales to snog the sense out of John Watson, much as he would like to. He stepped back and checked the reaction of his best friend.

For his part, John's responding smile lit his eyes, their deep blue depths sparkling warmly with genuine affection.

"Shall we go home then?" his blogger asked.

With a nod, the consulting detective agreed, "Yes, I'm quite ready to sojourn to the comfort of our sitting room."

They collected the genius's luggage and walked to the queue of waiting cars. John confidently led the way to a nondescript black sedan. Sherlock immediately recognized the man opening the boot as Mycroft's main driver. Once they were closer, the man who had previously introduced to both of them as "Jules" took the bags and stowed them away while they slid into the backseat.

It wasn't long before they had pulled away from the curb and found themselves in the familiar rush of London traffic. They relaxed against the plush leather seats, both relieved to finally be back together again.

"I quite enjoyed our letters," Sherlock declared mildly with a sidelong glance at his blogger's profile. He saw John grinning out of the corner of his eye.

"So did I," the older man replied, the very essence of nonchalant, he slid his hand across the seat between them and left it there, almost as if it was an open invitation. Hesitantly, the genius reached over and entwined their fingers together. John glanced back at him briefly, a smile still on his face as he gave them a quick squeeze.

The rode in comfortable silence for several minutes before John asked, "Did you get my last letter? I hope I sent it out in enough time to reach you before you left France."

Sherlock hummed in ascension, then said, "Yes, I did—you had expounded upon your requirements for a proper relationship and effectively asked whether I was capable of giving those things to you."

John inhaled sharply but did not break his gaze away from the scenery flying by his window. "And?" he questioned softly.

The genius felt a wave of relief wash over him; if his blogger was asking his thoughts, he had not received Sherlock's final letter. It had been a long shot that it would arrive before he had himself, but the consulting detective had sent it out before he could regret his decision. If it hadn't been delivered, then Sherlock could intercept it before it was read. It was only hours after the post had been picked up at the genius felt a sudden wave of panic at the revealing content of the missive. He would tell John all that he had laid bare in the letter—but in his own time and not through pen and paper.

"Not in the back of Mycroft's car," he responded quietly, then added as a joke, "you have to buy me dinner first."

The doctor huffed out a laugh at the cheekiness of his best friend. He gave the hand in his another squeeze and leaned forward to give driver a new destination. Sherlock raised an elegant eyebrow at the address and was rewarded with a sheepish grin and shrug.

What seemed like an eternity later, the car pulled up in front of a familiar location. Before John could exit, Sherlock had bound out of the car and gallantly opened John's door and extended his hand to him. The good doctor laughed and took the proffered help in exiting the vehicle, if only to have an excuse to maintain contact a little longer. He was further impressed when his mad best friend beat him to the restaurant's door and held it open for him. He offered his thanks as he stepped around the younger man and into the warm, fragrant space of the eatery.

They were greeted enthusiastically by their host and shown to a private table in the back.

"I'm still confused as to why we're here," Sherlock declared after Angelo greeted them and took their drink order.

"You said I had to buy you dinner first before you answered my question," John reminded him with a hint of amusement lacing his voice. He then sobered quickly and added, "We need to discuss a few things and I thought it best to do that before we get home. There's less chance of us being… distracted… here."

Sherlock gave a noncommittal hum as he glanced around the restaurant to assess the likeliness of their conversation being overheard or encroached upon. He'd have to give Billy a good tip for the covert privacy this booth afforded them. When he was confident there were no eavesdroppers, the genius shifted his attention back to his best friend. John was staring at him with an intensity that made him slightly uncomfortable.

The consulting detective cleared his throat to buy himself a little more time. "Recap your relationship demands for me."

His blogger sighed and said, "You know very well what I wrote—knowing you, you've probably memorized every word and have contemplated every possible sub textual meaning."

"Humor me, please."

His request was met by silence and an increase in the intensity of that indigo gaze.

"John—please," the younger man begged, something he would never do for another single, living being. "We haven't seen each other in six months, I simply wish to hear the sound of your voice. Your intonation and choice of words helps me to better understand your motives and desires. Tell me what you want—what you need from me for this to work."

The good doctor inched a little closer to him and just as he was about to speak, Angelo chose that moment to return with their drinks.

As he sat down a glass of chardonnay in front of Sherlock and a Guinness for John, the waiter asked, "What can I get you gentlemen on this fine evening?"

Before the consulting detective could reply with a scathing retort, the older man answered, "We're not quite ready to order yet. Would you mind terribly giving us some time?"

"Absolutely!" Angelo declared. "Tell you what—just wave whenever you're ready and I'll come back. Give you lads a bit of privacy." He gave them a saucy wink before sauntering off to the kitchen.

John gave a huff of laughter at the waiter before he turned serious again. "Sherlock…" the doctor began but didn't advance the conversation beyond that. Instead, he favored following the intricate pattern of the wood grained table between them. The genius bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself quiet, affording the time that his blogger clearly needed.

"I've done a lot of thinking on this since I wrote that letter," John began in preamble. "I think it's safe to safe that we both have feelings for each other that are beyond what's strictly considered platonic." He glanced up waiting for Sherlock to refute his claim, when no resistance was given, he forged on.

"I like to express my affection for my partner physically—holding hands, kissing… I want to be able to put my arm around you while we sit on the sofa and watch crap telly. I want to cuddle with you in bed—after—you know. I need you to think about how your actions affect me when you're making decisions that could have further implications beyond the surface… I want us to be exclusive, you know that at the end of the day, you're the one I'm coming home to and I know that you're going to come to my bed when you need to sleep."

He paused briefly and took several deep breaths. So far, this wasn't anything the genius hadn't already known or expected, but there was more. John didn't make him wait long before he continued, "I've thought long and hard over whether I would be able to give any of it up, but as I've previously stated in my letter, I want it all. I cannot concede on any point—though I'm willing to perhaps forgo overt public displays of affection. I won't lie to you and say that anything less would be okay… our relationship means too much to me to ruin what we have if you're not completely committed it this… shift. If you're not willing or able to make this commitment, I completely understand and will bear you no ill will—we can just continue with our friendship as it has been."

The doctor had reached the end of his monologue and looked expectantly at his best friend. The consulting detective slowly let out the breath he had been holding and gave a minute shake of his head.

"John, I kissed you in the middle of an airport terminal," Sherlock reminded him. "I have no problem leaning over this table and repeating the act if that's what you want. Whether it's here, on the tube, in the middle of Scotland Yard—you name the place and I will snog the sense out of you. But that's unacceptable," he murmured. Before his blogger could misunderstand, as he was wont to do, the genius added, "I cannot simply return to the way things were between us. Just as you have given this subject much consideration, so have I. You know that I find physical contact with other people abhorrent, but I don't mind when it's you."

The younger man slid his right hand across the table, palm up in a silent offering. When his flat mate's tanned fingers closed around his, he gave an internal sigh of relief. "I don't have experience with relationships, I'm going to disappoint you—I can promise you that I will try my best. Those things you want… I… I want that too—with you." He finally met his blogger's stare, feeling incredibly exposed and uncomfortable at his declaration.

"Please, for the love of God, be absolutely sure that you mean what you say because if you don't… it would kill me," John declared, his deep blue eyes beseeching him to understand.

"As you already know, I have spent a significant amount of time contemplating the nature of my feelings for you and..."

Sherlock pauses and exhaled slowly, staring off over John's right shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze. He seems to have to collect himself before he continued.

His smooth baritone was just above a whisper when he said, "I overdosed because I wasn't able to express those feelings to you. I didn't know how to process and subsequently deal with them. I need you, John—and I don't need anything."

John stared dumbfounded at him for several long minutes before he surged across the table, pulling on the genius' arm to warn him of his intent. The younger man quickly caught on and met his flat mate halfway, their mouths slotted together perfectly in an electrifying joining of lips.

Yes! Sherlock's brain screamed, and he attempted to deepen the kiss by flicking the tip of his tongue out to graze John's bottom lip. He was more than a little disappointed when the contact was severed.

"Right, well," the doctor marshaled his thoughts into order as he sat back down, back ramrod straight in the way Sherlock knew he was once again assuming his mantle of his army rank, something his companion did when he had come to a final decision about some heinous thing the younger man had done and was deciding to soldier on. "We need to eat. Wonder what tonight's specials are…" He picked up the abandoned menu and perused it without meeting the detective's all-knowing gaze.

"I'm not hungry," the genius murmured, echoing the line he had been given by another so long ago, a strange fire in his stare.

John looked up and eyed him with an odd expression on his face. "I'm guessing you would like to experience certain... things... when we get home—yes?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly, a subtle pink ting coloring his cheeks.

"Well then we need to eat—you especially," the doctor replied with a smirk. "Need to keep your strength up."

Sherlock blushed and averted his eyes. John smiled softly, it was so rare to do his best friend so out of his element like this, it was quite endearing and oddly adorable.

"You are a beautiful man," the doctor stated quietly.

Surprised by the admission, the consulting detective looked back up at his blogger. "I thought you weren't attracted to men..."

"I'm not," John admitted plainly. The genius couldn't keep the flag of disappointment from crossing his features.

"Just you," added the older man. Sherlock stared at him searchingly.

"Why?" he demanded.

John tilted his head slightly and gazed across the table at his companion. "I'm not sure. You're not like anyone else, you're different—the exception to every rule, apparently. You're so intelligent, you're witty, funny, strangely thoughtful in your own way... and the way you play the violin! I... I'm quite enamored with you. And if I'm being honest, I have been for quite some time... I'm sorry I couldn't recognize that before now."

"John... you're incandescent. My brilliance shines brighter because of you," Sherlock declared. His doctor lifted their still jointed hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of the younger man's hand.

His blogger glanced around and signaled for Angelo before he stated, "Now that we have that all worked out, we're getting food—which you will eat."

Sherlock gave him a lopsided smile and murmured, "Yes, John."

The rest of their dinner was quite enjoyable; the consulting detective regaled the doctor with stories from the facility. John in turn told him about all the happenings in London and the cases that he had assisted Lestrade on, who had taken pity on him and invited him to continue working with them in Sherlock's absence.

When the plates had finally been removed some time later and their glasses emptied, John asked for the check and handed over his bank card before Sherlock could fish out his. When that earned him a stern, disapproving look.

"This was a date," he explained, waving away the expression and giving his flat mate a cheeky wink. "And if I'm not mistaken, you did say on the ride over here that I had to buy you dinner…"

Despite the blush rising to his face, the consulting detective laughed.

With the check paid, they wound their way through the tables to the front door with fingers intertwined. Hailing a cab was but a moment's work and once they were nestled in the backseat, Sherlock felt his pulse increase slightly when the realization that they were finally going home. This homecoming was significantly different than his return from The Fall; this time, he was almost certain that John was going to be spending the night with him.

As his thoughts chased each other at rapid pace, his blogger was keenly aware of what was going on in his head and gave a reassuring squeeze to his hand. Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself.

The ride seemed far shorted than he remembered, but the consulting detective was willing to concede that the anticipation that had been building since the moment he first kissed John at airport had reached atomic level by the time the cab rolled to a stop outside the familiar and sorely missed black door of their flat.

* * *

 **I'm leaving my author's notes here because I want the next and last chapter to say what it's going to say without me prattling on. Some trivia for you: Emily, Sherlock's psychologist, is an amalgamation of two of my friends and colleagues who are both exceptional therapists; it's an honor and a privilege to work with them. The title and John's advice from his grandmother was recently said to me by a therapist much older and wiser than myself. She said that she tells parents the best thing they can teach their children is how to be uncomfortable and inconvenienced because anything in life worth doing will make you feel uncomfortable and will inconvenience you. This statement has deeply resonated with me and I just keep coming back to it.**

 **Thanks for hanging in there with me and I hope you've enjoyed the story so far. If you're here for the smut, I hope the next chapter does not disappoint ;)**


	18. Chapter 18: Utterly Wrecked

He threw a wad of bills at the driver before jumping out, pulling John with him. The good doctor giggled as he fumbled with his keys, trying to get his trembling hand to function properly to unlock the door. Sherlock sighed in relief, glad to see that he wasn't the only one affected by the thoughts of what may transpire between them tonight. He took pity on his blogger and retrieved the keys from his shaking fingers and letting them inside.

No sooner was the door closed than the genius found himself shoved up against it. Warm, soft lips slotted against his and before he could even process that, John's tongue licked at the seam of his mouth, asking for entrance. He was so desperate for this very thing that he immediately acquiesced. The slide of their tongues together made him weak in the knees and he clutched desperately at John's jacket, attempting to pull him closer. He was hyper aware of a thigh being pressed between his legs, and is rebellious body responded in kind.

After what seemed like both an eternity and mere seconds, the doctor pulled away breathing heavily and staring up at him with lust-blown eyes. He licked his lips, an action that Sherlock's eyes followed intently. A hand reached out to grab his own and he was being gently tugged forward.

"Not here, yeah?" John said, leading him up the stairs to their flat. He quickly unlocked the door to the sitting room and then they were finally amongst their belongings.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the wonderful scent of tea, Mrs. Hudson's baking, old books, and _John_.

"Welcome home," his best friend declared softly.

The genius looked around as he slipped off his Belstaf and hung it up on their coat rack. The space was very clean and tidy, even his desk—which still contained all his papers—was neatly organized and dusted. He didn't remember the last time the flat was this clean… though it was probable before he moved in.

"I also changed your bed linens," John told him casually. "Didn't think you wanted to sleep in a layer of dust."

That statement brought his attention back to the older man. He was oddly touched that his blogger had the foresight to think about such things. To show his appreciation, Sherlock crowded into the doctor's space and gave him a lingering kiss as he helped the other out of his jacket. Just before he could deepen the kiss into something more, he was stopped by a firm hand on his sternum.

"Before we do this, I need to know how much experience you actually have with this," John said gently.

Sherlock blushed a lovely shade of pink, he bit his lip and averted his eyes, feeling immensely out of his depth in this moment and wondered if his admission to his lack of experience would cause the doctor to change his mind.

But without having to say anything, John just instinctively knew what he needed. "It's okay, Sherlock, if you're a virgin. I just want to know so I know how slow to take this. The last thing I want to do is unknowingly hurt you by going too fast."

Still not meeting his blogger's gaze, the consulting detective admitted, "Yours is the only touch I've ever been able to bare. I've never been...intimate… with anyone before."

Understanding the magnitude of the gift that was being handed to him caused John to blink at sudden moisture threatening to dampen his eyes.

"I'm humbled and honored that you've chosen to let me be the one," he murmured as soon as he was able to keep the tremor out of his voice.

He bit the inside of his cheek as he quickly thought through several scenarios before offering what he considers to the best solution.

"Why don't we just sit on the sofa and go from there?" the doctor suggested. "That way, the pressure of the bedroom isn't there and we can go at a pace you're comfortable with."

"But what if I want you in my bed?" Sherlock demanded petulantly.

John's smile reached his eyes, causing the low lighting to set off sparkles in their blue depths as he answered, "Then we go to bed..."

The genius nodded in ascension and allowed himself to be guided to the sofa. He waited just long enough for his blogger the join him, sitting sideways to face him, before Sherlock tentatively leaned forward to press a soft, chaste kiss to the other's mouth.

"You're sure about this..." Sherlock stated, searching his blogger's face for any sign of hesitation or identity crisis. He was slightly surprised by the lack of any evidence that John might not be fully on board with this new-found physical intimacy between them.

"I'm absolutely certain about this—about us," John confirmed, he leaned forward to meet the consulting detective's lips.

"But how?" The younger man he insisted, trying to puzzle out the reasoning behind John's calmness about everything. He partly hated himself for pushing the issue and not being able to accept what he wanted so badly but he needed to know that this was real and that the moment he let his guard down that it wouldn't be suddenly yanked away from him.

John reached up and cupped one pale cheek in his hand. Sherlock, without being completely aware of his actions, nuzzled into the touch. The doctor felt a tug at his heart and a wave of fondness wash over him for this impossible man front of him.

The genius didn't miss a single shift in his companion's expression. "You genuinely want this," he breathed in awe.

"I want _you_ ," John corrected gently. "I've never thought about being with another man before, but then again, none of them were you. It's not about anatomy for me, it's about the connection we have with each other. I've never been this close to anyone before, so I suppose this is new for both of us."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than it was claimed yet again by that wicked cupid's bow. Sherlock gave out a surprised yelp when he was pulled roughly onto his blogger's lap. He shifted a bit so that he was straddling the older man, his left leg tucked behind him and the right one bend with his foot resting on the floor for leverage.

His train of thought was derailed when those calloused doctor's hands raked down his back then cupped his arse and squeezed, kneading the fleshy globes. That was the catalyst; he was no longer able to keep his hands to himself and decided that they needed to pick up the pace a bit—he had, after all, been waiting _months_ for this very moment.

Sherlock deftly unbuttoned John's shirt and pulled it out from where it was tucked into his trousers. He took a second to enjoy the feel of the silk fabric between his fingers before he pushed the sides away to reveal his doctor's bare chest.

"No vest today," he murmured to himself. John always wore an undershirt, so it was a surprise to find there wasn't one today. He tucked that thought away to examine at length later, when he wasn't attempting to undress John.

Sherlock's fingertips ghosted over the hard plains of the doctor's pectorals before dipping down lower to the well-defined abdominal muscles that outlined a perfect six pack. The genius hummed in appreciation. The good doctor's trim waist was wrapped in layers of hard, lean muscle and to finally— _finally_! feel them beneath his hands was awe-inspiring. His gaze strayed lower to the v-shaped formation of muscle that dipped down into his trousers, leading to his very proud and prominent erection. The consulting detective's mouth was suddenly dry.

John was so unassuming in his jeans and jumpers, like a fuzzy baby tiger. Sherlock marveled at how confident his best friend was taking charge of the situation, how sure he was of himself and his next move. Three Continents Watson indeed. The silly nickname suddenly made sense to the consulting detective. While he wasn't necessarily thrilled with the vast number of women his best friend would have had to sleep with to earn such a moniker, he was grateful for the experience John had gained in this area, since he himself was woefully lacking any practical knowledge on the subject of sex. He was very eager to change that, though.

He quickly tampered down an unexpected surge of jealousy that bubbled forth—there was no reason for it in this moment, as what he so desperately wanted was being willingly giving to him.

John giggled when his best friend's wandering digits tickled him as they brushed over his left side, just above the waistband of his trousers.

"You've gotten a tattoo," Sherlock breathed as stared transfixed at the art inked into that tanned flesh.

In bold, black font about five centimeters high and seven and a half centimeters long was **221b**. Of all the things John could have gotten done, he chose to have their flat number permanently inked onto his skin. It deeply moved the consulting detective more than he could have anticipated. It wasn't just the address, but what it stood for—the life they shared together. Nothing else could have stated something so important in simpler, yet elegant, terms. Sherlock bend over to place a reverent kiss on the ink.

"It was my birthday gift to myself," John informed him as he carded his fingers through the younger man's dark curls.

"You continually surprise me," the consulting detective responded as he straightened. He would come back to that spot later and ask his questions, but right now there was so much of his blogger's glorious flesh available that he couldn't devote the time to it at the present. He would also ask about the gym membership his flat mate had clearly acquired in his absence.

"May I?" Sherlock asked, uncharacteristically polite as he gestured at the knot of scar tissue on the doctor's left shoulder.

"Be my guest," his blogger murmured.

The genius had seen it before, of course, but never for more than a fleeting moment and never this close. He brushed his fingertips over the white skin, mapping out the uneven lines of the marred flesh.

John's sucked in a breath when his best friend's fingers started to wander over that sensitive spot. He should have known Sherlock would be curious about it and wouldn't pass up the opportunity to examine it in-depth. Silky curls brushed against his jawline and chin as the consulting detective leaned forward to place delicate kisses on the scar. That wicked tongue then laved at the spot his Cupid's bow had just touched. The doctor threw his head back and moaned at the completely foreign contact to the damaged bundle of nerves. It had felt like lightning had shot through his body, crackling down his spine and filling his cock until he throbbed painfully against the fly of his jeans.

"So sensitive right here," Sherlock observed, his breath ghosting over the wet trail of saliva that had painted the doctor's skin. "But no other lover has touched you here... pity, they would have found one of your biggest erogenous zones..."

"All my girlfriends avoided my scar," John panted, confirming what his flatmate had deduced.

"Would you like me to stop?" the genius asked. When he received a brief shake of the head in response, he stated, "I bet you could get you off by just doing this." He continued his ministrations.

The doctor huffed a surprised laugh and replied, "Yeah—you probably could."

When John started to thrust his hips up into Sherlock's, the younger man stopped. He pulled back to look at the wrecked image of his blogger below him. "Mark my words," the genius declared in an octave below his usual tone, "I will do just that—soon—but right now, there are other things I want more…"

John's response to his attention made him bold, so he slipped a hand down between them and cupped the doctor's erection through his trousers. His blogger gasped and dug his fingers into Sherlock's side.

The genius leaned forward and whispered into his ear, "I want you in my bed, John Watson."

"Be careful what you wish for," his companion answered in the same manner. John nipped at his earlobe and sucked on it. Sherlock whimpered and ground down on his blogger's lap, trying to alleviate the unbearable pressure in his groin, desperately seeking friction.

"Let's go to bed, then," John stated, tapping the younger man on his hip in request to have him get up.

Sherlock immediately obliged and nearly stumbled tripping over his feet as he attempted to kick off his shoes on the way to his bedroom. The doctor giggled and caught him around the waist before he almost went headfirst into the wall in the hallway. The genius couldn't help but laugh as well, he helped John yank off the cuffs of his shirt, which was immediately discarded to the floor without a second thought to the delicate fabric.

Having already lost his shoes on the journey from the sitting room to the hall, John unbuttoned his trousers and slid them off while his best friend watched with avid attention.

"Oh God!" Sherlock groaned as he stared openly at his blogger's nearly naked form. His tanned legs were just as muscular as the rest of him. "You've been working out in my absence…"

The doctor approached him slowly, not so unlike a panther stalking his prey. It made the genius shiver in anticipation.

"I was going mad just sitting about the flat with nothing to do—had to occupy my time somehow… Do you approve?"

Sherlock bit his lip to contain the noise that threatened to spill from his mouth. All he could do was nod, and it was in that moment when he realized that John's hands were touching him, pulling at his belt and very slowly and deliberately unzipping the fly of his trousers while fiery indigo eyes stared back into his crystal blue ones. God, how formidable this man must have been on the battlefield!

His slacks hit the floor with nothing but a whisper and a soft metallic tink from the belt buckle. Then strong, sturdy, steady hands released his shirt buttons one by one, the eye contact never wavering. When the front was open, the older man slid his hands up under the fabric on his shoulders and followed it down to his wrists on either arm. Sherlock was at a complete loss to figure out how he was able to get the cuffs undone so deftly.

The consulting detective took a sharp breath, taking in the heady scent of arousal and John's cologne as the man in question crowded further into his space, arms circling his waist and soft lips stretching to his ear with hot words whispered into the shell, "I think you should get on the bed…"

Their bare chests lightly brushed against one another with the statement, turning Sherlock's knees to jelly. He had to grab onto his blogger's shoulders to keep himself upright. The doctor smiled and stretched up again to press his lips to his best friend's.

"You okay?" he asked softly, after the kiss ended. "A bit overwhelmed?"

Sherlock caressed the back of his blogger's neck and answered, "Yes, but in a good way—don't stop now."

Having the reassurance he needed to continue, John pushed the genius onto the bed, which the younger man only discovered was right there when he felt the back of his knees encounter the soft cotton of his quilt. Sherlock laughed as he bounced on the mattress, the weight of his blogger joining him.

After they scooted further up the mattress, the good doctor's wandering hands thoroughly explored the consulting detective's body for what seemed like eternity. The genius was content to let him. John trailed his fingers down the pale, smooth skin of Sherlock's chest.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured before bending over to suck into one dusky, hard pebbled nipple into his hot mouth.

His wet tongue flicked and swirled at it, sending the genius to writhe on the bed beneath his doctor. It seems that everywhere John touched him was the equivalent of being shocked, high voltage coursing through his body, setting his hairs straight on end and causing his toes to curl. His dream-turned-fantasy couldn't hold a candle to the real thing.

John finally stood and stripped off his pants. Sherlock lifted his head to take a peek at his soon-to-be-lover. He sat up suddenly and motioned for his blogger to come closer. The doctor crawled back into the bed and shuffled toward the consulting detective.

Sherlock's mouth was suddenly dry as he got his first good look at his blogger.

"Oh God, John! You are monstrous!" he breathed.

This earned him a surprised bark of laughter which died just as quickly as long pale fingers curled around his shaft and gave a few experimental strokes. John's erection was heavy in his hand and the genius was astonished at his girth.

"No wonder you had so many lady callers," he murmured, still sliding his fingers over and squeezing the column of flesh.

With a sudden realization, Sherlock glanced back at his best friend. "John—you aren't going to fit," he declared, trepidation coloring his voice.

"Ah! Do—don't worry, I promise you I will," the doctor panted. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist to still the motion of those wandering digits.

When he received a look of confused disappointment, John gave a brief shake of his head and told the consulting detective, "If you keep that up, the fun will be over before it's even started."

The genius laughed before he relinquished his hold on his blogger. As soon as the other man was released, he stretched over the side of bed and grabbed something from the nightstand. Sherlock perked up in curiosity and craned his neck to see what John had in his hand. With a smirk and a raised eyebrow, the good doctor held up a little bottle of lube. The consulting detective experienced another crushing wave of lust at the implications, the fact that the bottle had obviously been placed there in his absence, in anticipation of this very moment.

"So sure of yourself, were you?" the younger man murmured.

John had the good graces to at least look a little sheepish. He gave a self-depreciativeshrug and replied, "Wishful thinking—what can I say? Though I did only buy it the other day."

Sherlock hummed in appreciation before he said, "I do appreciate the forethought."

With a grin and the definitive click of a cap, the older man motioned for his best friend to lay back. The request was met with immediate compliance and he slotted himself between Sherlock's pale, muscular legs. The genius expected John to just go for it, so he was completely surprised when the head of his cock was suddenly engulfed in hot, wet heat. He raised his head just enough to watch his flesh disappear between those oh so kissable lips. John glanced up at the same moment and locked onto his stare. He caught a wicked gleam in those blue orbs before he was taken fully into his blogger's mouth, the tip of his erection hitting the back of that tanned throat. The consulting detective moaned and dropped his head back down onto the pillow.

Seconds later, a strong, insistent fingertip circled his entrance. When John pulled back and lightly grazed the head of his penis with teeth, Sherlock gasped as that probing finger slid into him. He didn't have more than a moment to wonder at the strange burning sensation before he was deep-throated once more. His mind short-circuited as that finger crooked inside him and hit his prostate.

Sherlock keened as an intense pleasure ripped through him. The doctor chuckled around his mouthful as he continued his ministrations. The genius was lost in a sea of pleasure as his blogger carefully prepared him until he was a sweaty, writhing mess. When John finally removed his fingers, the younger man was trembling and tried to desperately grab at his flatmate to maintain contact.

"Shh, shh. It's alright," the older man assured him with a gentle but firm hand running down his right flank. "It'll be easiest if you're on your hands and knees."

Sherlock shook his head, his black curls glistening in the moonlight. "No—like this," he demanded. "I want to see your face. I've gone so long without seeing you. I don't want to have my back to you for a single second of this."

John's expressed softened as he felt his heart swell at the admission. He gave a nod and said, "Okay, if that's what you want."

The genius held his breath as his blogger crawled up to him, his muscular frame was comforting and grounded him as John settled his weight on him. Warm, soft lips met and they spent several glorious moments kissing. He felt the blunt, insistent tip of John's erection pressing against him.

"I've waited so long for you," the consulting detective whispered. "Please…"

And in the next moment, John slid into him, his body stretching to accommodate his blogger's girth. Sherlock had to give his lover credit, it didn't hurt nearly as much as he had anticipated, the good doctor had thoroughly prepared him. That didn't mean that he wasn't being split in two by that massive cock.

The genius clawed at John's chest, his back arching off the bed.

"Shh, it's okay sweetheart—I've got you. I've got you," his blogger assured him in a soft, soothing tone.

After several tortuous moments of stillness, Sherlock shuttered and gasped as his body finally started to accept the intrusion, allowing John to slip in further.

"Perhaps you were right," the younger man huffed. "Maybe this wasn't the best position to start with."

"Of course I was," the doctor retorted, amusement lacing his voice.

"I just waaaaahhh—! Wanted to see your face!" Sherlock moaned as John took the opportunity to push in the rest of the way.

John carefully lowered himself down into his best friend, effectively bringing them face to face. They held that position for countless minutes as they just stared back at one another.

"Put your hands above your head," his blogger directed.

The consulting detective complied immediately despite the fact that he had no idea what John was on about. He didn't have to wait for long. The doctor shifted positions again to reach up and lace their fingers together.

Then, while maintaining as much skin to skin contact as possible, John started to move is a slow rocking motion. Sherlock gasped as sparks of pleasure burst up his spine.

"Good?" his blogger asked, checking to make sure he wasn't in pain.

Sherlock nodded and licked his abused lips.

"Any pain? Discomfort?"

"No, none," the younger man declared. "This feels so good."

A wicked grin stretched across John's face before he said, "lift your legs—wrap them around my waist." The doctor released his hands in favor of repositioning his arms beneath Sherlock's shoulders, giving him more leverage.

He did as he was told and shouted in pleasure when the change of angles allowed his blogger to hit his prostate head on with the next thrust. He gripped the bed sheets, knuckles white as he tried desperately to cling to the last visages of his sanity.

"How does this compare with your dream?" John asked in a silken purr. "Do I live up to your expectations?"

"No—you exceed them," Sherlock panted. "Just as you do with everything else." He took several deep, ragged breaths and compelled himself to maintain the intense stare that wasn't nothing less than a complete eye fuck. The genius forced himself to speak again, "In my dream, you didn't come." It was almost accusatory.

John chuckled and the consulting detective finally experienced the sensation in reality—it was so much more stimulating than he had anticipated.

"Don't worry, my darling," the doctor huffed. "I'm definitely going to get off... right after you do..."

And he set to his task with wild abandon, like a starved man feasting on a meal he'd so very long been denied.

Sherlock's mind was blessedly silenced by the fervent pace and the sensations, along with an unbearable heat, shooting down his body at lightning speed. His toes curled, fingernails digging into his blogger's upper back, when one well-aimed thrust that sent his orgasm ripping through him with unexpected such force that he bowed completely off the bed, screaming John's name.

As the genius came, he tightened all the more around John's throbbing member. Even with his stockier build and extra muscle weight, he was barely able to hold Sherlock down. When he heard his name on his lover's lips, he succumbed to his own orgasm. The doctor gasped and shuttered, calling out his best friend's name.

He still had the wherewithal to not collapse onto the younger man beneath him. He carefully pulled out and lowered himself to rest on Sherlock's heaving chest. The consulting detective kissed him deeply before and gently tapping him on the hip, gently asking him to move.

John groaned as he flopped down on his back next to the genius. He reached out and laced their fingers together as the laid side by side trying to catch their breath.

"We've been through a lot together—you and I…" Sherlock murmured to the ceiling some time later, once his heart rate had finally returned to normal.

John rolled over onto his side to face his lover. As he trailed his fingers down the genius's arm, the doctor replied in the same tone, "That we have."

The consulting detective turned his body to mirror John's position before he added, "It's always just been you and me against the world."

His breath caught in his throat as he gazed back at his blogger. Lifting a trembling hand, he caressed the stubble on John's chin.

"What is this look?" he questioned.

"What look?"

"You're staring at me as if... I don't know..."

"Don't you?" John murmured.

"Like I'm a precious gem and you're the only one who knows it's true value," Sherlock whispered in awe. "Is that truly how you see me?"

John leaned forward and in a soft voice challenged, "Make a deduction."

Sherlock closed his eyes from the onslaught of emotions crashing over him in waves. The tidal force of it all made him feel like he might very truly drown. It was all so new to him. He was in no way prepared for what sex with John was truly like. It had utterly wrecked him, shattered him in thousands of pieces... but then just as soon as he had been broken, his doctor had put him back together again, as he had always done.

Somehow, sweet, adoring, remarkable John sensed all this without words and pulled him closer yet to cuddle him beneath the covers. He murmured soft phrases the genius didn't hear while carding his strong, capable fingers through Sherlock's damp curls. In that very moment, the consulting detective's knowledge that this short, ex-army doctor was his best match in every way was once again reaffirmed.

They were silent for some time, but then Sherlock asked so quietly that John almost missed his question.

"Is it always like this?"

Again, his blogger seemed to know what he was asking without him having to elaborate further. "No, not always. Sex can be a lot of different things: fun, rough, slow and sweet... it all just depends on the moment."

"Is it always that intense?" the genius wondered aloud.

John rested his warm palm against his best friend's cheek, rubbing his thumb over his full lips before he responded. "For you, I imagine it'll always be intense to some degree because that's who you are."

"How does this time with me compare to past experiences?" Sherlock was genuinely interested in the response.

"It doesn't," John softly replied with a shake of head. "Nothing ever has, or will, compare to you. In anything."

Sherlock fought back tears as he leaned in to claim ownership of his blogger's lips. As his blogger's tongue caressed his, he couldn't help but feel the overwhelming surge of feelings for this man in his arms.

They continued like that until sleep gently stole them away in its sweet embrace.

{o0o}

Sherlock cracked his eyes open to see the early, dark grey light of morning filtering through the crack in the curtains. He shifted slightly then smiled as he felt the arm around his waist tighten reflexively, his doctor's calloused fingers splayed against his abdomen in a possessive and protective manor. The genius reveled in the feeling of so much skin to skin contact. He'd never been this close to anyone before, let alone been naked like this.

Behind him, John stirred briefly, murmuring something he couldn't quite make out before an open-mouthed kiss was passed at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. The older man's breathing evened out once more, alerting Sherlock that he'd indeed fallen back to sleep. With the rhythmic lull of John's breath against his neck, the genius succumbed to dreams once more.

It was some hours later when the doctor blinded awake, finding a riot of messy black curls tucked under his chin. When he shifted to flex the strain his left shoulder, Sherlock rolled onto his stomach away from John. He spent several long minutes gazing fondly at his detective undisturbed, thinking about how much his life had changed since he met the genius. John wouldn't have missed it for the world.

When he could no longer ignore the call of nature, he slipped quietly out of bed and into the bathroom. When the doctor popped his head back into the bedroom, his best friend was still asleep, so he decided to put on the kettle.

While wandering about the kitchen, John noticed a stack of post sitting on the table and realized that Mrs. Hudson must have brought it up early. He thumbed through the envelopes and saw there was a letter from France. He thought that Sherlock had mentioned something about a final letter that he had yet to receive—this must be it.

Curious to see what this last missive said, the doctor tore open the envelope eagerly. His hands started trembling and his heart started to pound in his chest the further into the letter he read. He could scarcely believe the words written so elegantly before him.

He had barely finished reading it before he raced back into his flatmate's—now lover's—bedroom.

Sherlock stirred and blinked sleepily at him, a warm smile dawning on his handsome face. "Good morning," he murmured.

John was beyond the point of pleasantries; he held up the letter and demanded, "Did you mean what you said in this?"

The genius was suddenly wide awake and sat up fully, regarding John cautiously and with a little hint of optimism before responding, "Every word."

They just stared at one another for what seemed like an eternity before John launched himself onto the bed and wrapped his arms around his best friend, burying his face in the consulting detective's neck. Sherlock sighed in relief and slid them down to lay in a more comfortable position.

John raised his head to gaze into crystal blue eyes and declared, "I love you, too—so much. God! I can't even begin to tell you."

"I know," Sherlock replied with a smirk right before his blogger claimed his lips in a sweet, adoring kiss.

They didn't have a need for words for a long time after.

* * *

 _Rue de la Pise_

 _F-06360 Eze Village_

 _France_

 _12 September, 201-_

 _My Dearest John,_

 _God, I don't know what's happening to me; I hardly recognize myself at this point. I have tried my best to express my thoughts and feelings to you regarding this obvious shift in our relationship; it is hard for me to say this, but I have no idea whether I've hit the mark or fallen short of my intentions. In case of the latter, I am hoping to clear this up as best I can._

 _As I lie awake at night, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to be in your arms, to have you touch me... I know that you've done so before—God knows I've injured myself a few times and needed your expertise, but to have your hands on me in a different capacity... to feel your touch not in a professional capacity, but as a lover. I've never shared my body with another, I always thought the idea was abhorrent, yet the thought of being with you sets me on fire. Is it always like this?_

 _The truth of the matter is that you have become indispensable to me, John. You've integrated yourself into my work and are one of the most important facets of my life. Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side, and yet... I can't seem to help myself. I've tried to remain above it, but I have failed in this one thing. How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? The only viable conclusion I can draw at this point is that I am in love with you._

 _I know that there are things you had hoped for in life: a home, marriage, possibly children. I cannot say that those were things I had wished for or even considered, that is until quite recently. They never had any appeal—until you. Perhaps the children part I am not very fond of, but I'm open to a heated debate on the subject if you absolutely insist upon it._

 _I know that we have discussed a possible shift in our relationship to include being physically intimate with one another, it can be a… "friends with privileges" scenario if you want. I am not expecting you to return the sentiment which I am expressing here within and if you wish to continue our partnership as is has been, I respect your choice—I may not like it, but I will respect it._

 _Just as I am the world's only consulting detective, there is only one Doctor John Watson. There has never been and will never be anyone like you—believe me when I say this to you._

 _I cannot promise you that things with me will be any easier; I will continue to annoy you endlessly, there will be body parts in the fridge, I'll probably insult your intelligence more than I should... but as you are loyal to me, I give you my fidelity in return—that is, if you'll have me. I am yours—for better or worse._

 _Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,_  
 _Having some business, do entreat her eyes_  
 _To twinkle in their spheres till they return._

 _Love,_

 _Sherlock_

 _PS. Could be dangerous. ;)_


End file.
